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Chapters (102)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Map
  5. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  6. BOOKI
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. BOOKII
  30. 1
  31. 2
  32. 3
  33. 4
  34. 5
  35. 6
  36. 7
  37. 8
  38. 9
  39. 10
  40. 11
  41. 12
  42. 13
  43. 14
  44. 15
  45. 16
  46. 17
  47. 18
  48. 19
  49. BOOKIII
  50. 1
  51. 2
  52. 3
  53. 4
  54. 5
  55. 6
  56. 7
  57. 8
  58. 9
  59. 10
  60. 11
  61. 12
  62. 13
  63. 14
  64. 15
  65. 16
  66. 17
  67. BOOKIV
  68. 1
  69. 2
  70. 3
  71. 4
  72. 5
  73. 6
  74. 7
  75. 8
  76. 9
  77. 10
  78. 11
  79. BOOKV
  80. 1
  81. 2
  82. 3
  83. 4
  84. 5
  85. 6
  86. 7
  87. 8
  88. 9
  89. 10
  90. 11
  91. 12
  92. 13
  93. 14
  94. 15
  95. 16
  96. 17
  97. 18
  98. Glossary
  99. Acknowledgments
  100. Also by Andrea Hairston
  101. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  102. Newsletter Sign-up

The Dog pants and snorts, howls and whimpers. Yari is lost and it’s his fault. He tries to crawl into Awa’s lap.

“What happened to you?” She laughs, and the Dog nuzzles her, whining. “You’re usually cheering me up.” She lets him sit on her.

“We need a break anyhow.” Meera strokes his back. He whimpers when she touches bare skin. “Did something try to eat you?”

Meera and Rokiat sit close. They talk softly and stroke the Dog’s head as Awa puts bee spit on his wounds. Nobody licks him though.

“It’s all right.” Awa kisses his nose. “You got away to us.”

The Dog licks her and falls asleep. In his dreams, he chases Yari and Hezram through Smokeland.

8

Holy City

Obsessed, relentless, and not quite right in his mind, Djola marched into Holy City. He hadn’t been in his right mind since Zizi exiled him. No seed and silk potion dulled his senses and although Samina’s chill cooled his temper, rage fueled his resolve. He pushed that thought away. It was noonday when Ice Mountain’s highest peak cast the shortest shadow. Only Mount Eidhou near Arkhys City had a peak so high with ghost-blue glaciers frozen year round.

Barbarians, northern tribes, and citizens would gather this evening to receive blessings from fickle mountain gods. At the festival’s end they’d pay tribute to high priest Hezram and his lapsed Elders and Babalawos, his witchdoctors. This was money snatched from the emperor’s coffers, from roads and bridges, armies and waterworks. Water was fluid treasure, the Empire’s greatest currency. Holy City squandered water, blood, and the wind too.

Hezram and his gang of liars deserved what was to come.

During noonday heat, people in Holy City withdrew to cool cellars for siesta, love play, or meditation. Only women’s societies toiled to prepare feasts and dances while transgressors did penance labor—what no righteous person would soil their spirits with. Transgressors swept streets in Holy City clean of dung and set out flowers that seduced a riot of rare songbirds.

Djola donned a silver-mesh blindfold and headed for the festival plaza in front of the temple built into Ice Mountain. He tapped counterpoint to the hummingbirds with a blind-man staff. Cheerful cooks offered him fragrant honey cakes. Warrior-acolytes guarding the citadel’s Dream Gates laughed at an unarmed, disabled supplicant. They assumed he’d arrived early to be nearest the water altars.

“Hope to catch a wayward miracle, do you?” one sneered and let him pass.

Sweating and muttering in character, Djola picked his way around clay cottages perched atop underground streams. Holy men stayed cool even with hundreds of lamps burning. Transgressors provided a steady supply of tree oil, wild goat, and ice from the mountain. Northlanders brought books, maps, and tapestry from across the world. Barbarian thief-lords offered children to bed. The holy men had no complaints.