“Festival conjure,” Iyalawo Tembe declared. A wise woman with floating-city ancestors, she was the only woman who’d dare speak in the priestly citadel. “Nothing else burns. Impossible, a mirage, a carnival-spell.” A robust figure, Tembe’s skin was darker than Djola’s, her hair a dusky cloud with streaks of gold. She had green-flecked black eyes, like Djola. A fortress of knowledge pledged to Hezram, Tembe scowled at Djola and calmed the crowd. Those who still wanted to run from catastrophe were jammed in too tight to move.

“Don’t worry.” She spoke with a musical lilt. “The supreme god won’t turn a blind eye and abandon the faithful.”

The holy men knew better. The gods—if they existed at all—cared only for power. “Mercy! Mercy!” Hezram and his inner circle chanted, a few in barbarian languages.

“Mercy?” Djola had ancestors from north and south. Mercy rescued none of them. “What good is mercy or fickle gods or corrupt priests and lapsed Babalawos living on people’s fear?”

Several books wrapped in Lahesh metal-mesh tumbled down crumbling steps. They landed by Djola’s feet and raised a cloud of sand that stung his shins. The holy men choked on their chants as he thrust scrolls and books into the small bag slung across his shoulder. Vandana’s bag, his bag now.

“Mercy is salvation in every religion. Why steal ancient books no one can read?” Hezram gripped Djola’s thigh. “We welcome all gods in Holy City. Join us. Surely, Emperor Azizi would—”

“You’re a pampered, backwater protectorate, sacrificing children.” Djola shook Hezram off and dropped turquoise sky rocks into his bag—proof for Council. “Thief-lords pay tribute but tell you lies.”

A musician beat her talking drum to say: “Lying in the citadel means certain death.”

“You’re a stranger, from the floating cities perhaps?” Hezram glanced at the dwindling mound of turquoise and a bag no bigger than a calabash. His mustache wilted and his smile cracked. “Inside the Dream Gates, it’s suicide to lie. Weapons kill the men who wield them.”

“Yes.” Djola blinked aching eyes. Without a blindfold, he too was vulnerable to void-spells. “Barbarians and northern chiefs don’t lie inside the citadel. They say nothing. They even avoid stabbing each other on the streets of Holy City. Beyond the city, anything goes.” He dabbed his oozing eye with cloud-silk that fluttered back into the small bag of its own accord—Orca’s spell. “Who believes in mercy? Tell me you don’t worship catastrophe and power.”

“What is this conjure?” Hezram gestured at Ice Mountain. Cathedral trees shuddered down burl-mottled trunks to leagues of roots. Branches flailed in the wind.

“These steps”—Djola pointed—“they go to the peak?”

Hezram nodded. “Climbing is prayer. The mountain is the supreme god’s temple.”