“Farts and fleas! Quiet.” Rokiat peered through unripe mangos. “The rocks have ears. The grass tells tales.”

“Who wastes night eyes on this grove before harvest time?” Meera said. “Fleas and farts?” She laughed at his colorful language.

Filled with awe, Rokiat tugged Awa’s singed hair. “Did you fly off to Smokeland?”

“Green Elder drivel,” Awa said. “Too many nights doing lookout. I fell asleep.”

Rokiat frowned. He wouldn’t tell anybody her secret. He’d do anything for Meera or his horses, and Awa was friend to both. “What’s that?” He pointed to a Smokeland honeycomb and two dagger-sized stingers clenched in Awa’s fingers.

“Oh. Look. See?” She displayed a fresh gouge on her leg to distract him.

“Whayoa!” Rokiat closed his eyes. Priests bleeding transgressors made him sick to his stomach. He cleared warhorse dung from the sundial courtyard, buried dead acolytes who had no family and weren’t worth proper funerals, or oversaw any disgusting transgressor-duty instead. Other acolytes were glad to trade with him. Awa hid the bee-daggers in Bal’s Aido bag hanging at her waist.

“That leg wound festers.” Meera frowned at an old wound that wouldn’t heal.

“Honey helps.” Awa smeared a thin layer on her leg and the burnt arm that had oozed pus for two years. Smokeland honey dulled pain and prevented fever.

“Bees don’t sting you?” Rokiat glared at the honeycomb.

“This cloud-silk cloak is beautiful.” Meera stroked it. “Where’d you get it?”

“I don’t know really.” Awa folded the cloak again and again, until it was no bigger than a thin honey cake.

“Don’t let anybody find that.” Rokiat blinked as it disappeared into Bal’s Aido bag.

“I won’t.” Awa drizzled more honey on her leg. Nobody, not even Hezram, had ever noticed Bal’s shadow-warrior bag, which still held the golden wheel and marble eye from Smokeland. Great treasures.

“Come.” Meera gripped Awa’s squishy arm without gagging. Meera was as wide and strong as Awa used to be. Meera dug nails into tender flesh. Awa grimaced. Every step hurt, even on spongy grass. “We have almost a league to go.” A league should take a person an hour to walk—Awa needed two. “Next week is the Sun Festival to the gods of Ice Mountain. The day of short shadows.” Meera ran through mango trees toward Ice Mountain’s rocky flanks, tugging Awa along.

“Preparations begin tomorrow.” Rokiat ran beside them. “You’ll work for me, burying the dead. A sickness takes many acolytes. Every day in the temple somebody pierces himself instead of a transgressor and then creeps off to die in our cottages.”

“They lose their wits.” Meera shuddered. “It’s scary.”

“Hezram doesn’t want their bodies to fester.” Rokiat ran ahead. He could do a league in half an hour. “I’ll protect you from sickness and rogues.”