“This clown is too crazy to wait for evening cool.”

“He’ll be cold as a ghost soon.”

Djola sucked up their enthusiasm for his imminent demise, removed a silver-mesh glove, and touched the bottom step to the temple with his bare left hand. He took a breath. Blindfolded, he relied on his mind’s eye to dance Xhalan Xhala and show them their future. The mob halted fifty yards from him and hushed. Even men were wary of treading on crystals in the sundial courtyard. Only priests and warhorses were so bold.

A geyser of flame as wide as the spirit house spurted beyond blue sky to the stars. A chaste fire, it did not spread to nearby trees, but whirled tight against the temple walls. With each twist and turn, it consumed a wooden portico, glass facade, or stone tower. The mob groaned.

“So much fire. Does the fool burn?”

“I don’t think so.”

Djola pulled off his blindfold. Coppery skin burnished on pirate ships was salt streaked and taut with contempt. Full lips ran red with blood. His left hand throbbed. His right eye oozed burning pus. He must look like an angry demon. Confusion and disbelief spread through the mob. The temple was now a mound of sky rocks nestled in yards of cloud-silk—toxic baubles, like in Jena City. Brutal deities were trapped in the spidery orange veins of the turquoise. Four afternoon worshippers, three miners, and two acolytes tending transgressor blood in a front chamber were vapor. Only those deep in the mountain on the other side of Hezram’s Dream Gates survived. Djola let out a breath of cold mist. He refused the hapless dead a heartbeat of regret. He hoarded regret for the deaths of his family.

“The temple didn’t burn, did it?”

Ashes fell on their heads, but the good citizens resisted the evidence of their senses.

9

Witchdoctor

High priest Hezram, frantic, blue robe tangled, head and feet bare, raced across the sundial courtyard toward the whirling poison master. Hezram swallowed pride and fell to the ground by the mound of turquoise. Dragging silky brown hair and beard in the dirt, he kissed dung-coated boots and begged for mercy.

Witchdoctors, lesser priests, and groggy acolytes surged past the water altars onto the sundial. Sumptuous yellow robes cushioned clumsy falls as they dropped down behind their leader. Citizens, northern chiefs, and barbarians seethed behind the holy men. Warriors left armor and weapons outside the Dream Gates. They looked naked and foolish. A few howled. Behind the men, women dancers and cooks in festival robes hugged each other at the edge of the plaza. The women were careful not to desecrate the stone altar square with female flesh lest they call down more catastrophe.