“Even Azizi doesn’t feast on ducks and pigs,” he fumed. Would the world ever change? He answered this bleak question by touching his left hand to each side of the wooden corral, and without considering consequences, sent reckoning fire in a circle. He whistled to warhorses scattered about the fields. The fierce beasts gobbled one last bunch of fruit and clump of clover before trotting toward his Green Elder melody. He grabbed the halter of a hefty black mare with a startling red mane and tail. Tall and imposing, when she halted, so did the herd.

“Listen,” he shouted at transgressors still hovering in dank doorways. “Now is your chance for escape. Leave Holy City as fast as a horse can run.”

“No,” Hezram shouted. “These horses belong to Emperor Azizi, for his farms and armies. They’re long-lived and tireless, priceless. I can’t allow you to steal them.” He raised a hand as if to cast a weapon-spell.

“I’m no lapsed Babalawo to be felled by common conjure. Within your Dream Gates any weapon-spell you chant will target you first. I don’t wish your death, but I won’t save you again.”

“A true Babalawo, a wise man, claiming the power of ancestors?” Hezram glared at Djola. He couldn’t figure a way around his own conjure. “You planned this well.”

“Actually,” Djola said, grinning, “kicking in doors was an impulse.”

“Transgressors are well-marked.” Hezram smiled too. “They’ll be slaughtered on sight or they’ll starve. Sane people won’t shelter them.”

“I’m not sane.” Djola heaved a large chunk of turquoise at Hezram’s feet. “Payment for their freedom.”

Nobody in the hovels moved even as Ice Mountain crumbled behind them. Djola heaved the last five rocks at Hezram. What else to do? Prisoners and slaves did not always welcome liberation. Samina set fire to her hut rather than leave it. Her ashes scattered—no memorial place to grieve her. Regret was where Djola buried his family. Cliff faces trembled and the supreme god wept icy tears. Cathedral tree roots wouldn’t hold the temple mountain much longer. The Green Gates and corrals crumbled inexorably into toxic sand. Holy City was doomed.

“Time favors no one,” Djola said. He must get to Azizi.

Two young transgressors, a boy and girl, Zamanzi twins from the north, scrambled from a hovel into the courtyard. Djola recognized new detainees from their nut-brown color, thick locks, and sweet sweat scent. They leapt from altar to altar.

“That’s the idea,” he cheered.

As the twin acrobats jumped onto a red gelding, a skeletal figure stumbled out a hut. Pasty skin hung from wasting muscles. Blood-crusted rags reeked. Wiry hair was patchy on a burnt scalp.

“Samina?” He reached for a ghost haunting him in bright sunlight. A man, not dead Samina, gripped Djola’s hands, muttering gratitude. Attending to his next breath, Djola gathered his wits and pulled away. “Go on, man, escape.”