He was a tall man, muscular, fierce, confident in his power and used to respect. Blue and green tattoos on his smooth bald head shimmered with silver. He had made his mind a fortress. Silver tattoos must cover his heart. Awa shuddered. She rode with a handsome fiend who felt nobody else’s pain or joy.

“Too often, the heroes or gods we bow down to become the monsters that stomp our bones and drink our blood.” He translated a line from The Green Elder Songs for Living and Dying into Empire vernacular. Awa was unimpressed. Everyone made fun of Green Elder wisdom. She had done so herself as a young Sprite. But The Songs were no longer blather she mouthed to satisfy Yari, Isra, and other Elders. Too much had come clear to her for easy laughter.

“Our hearts betray us,” the poison master said. “Do you understand?”

Awa shook her head. Her heart ached from Meera abandoning her and even more from older wounds. She couldn’t blame Father, Mother, or her brothers for all her misery. Awa was the fool who had abandoned Bal and Yari.

“You spoke freely before, child. Why be silent now?” the poison master said. “Fatazz! I bet you’re older than you look with a good story to tell.”

“I’m soon twenty.” Awa clutched Bal’s Aido bag. “Life in a Green Elder enclave was a good story, but that time is gone, a griot tale for children.”

The poison master startled Awa with Green Elder song-conjure:

Gray is the day—bleak is the way—cracked is my heart, yet—

Every breath a wonder, every moment thunder

Miracles crashing the night

Offering a blaze of light

He did harmonies, polyrhythms, and overtones.

Where do we start—lost is my art—cracked is my heart, yet—

Every beat a wonder, before we’re torn asunder

Miracles crashing the night

Offering a blaze of light

Dance and sing while the wind blows

Where our ashes land, who knows?

Leap and soar while the rain falls

We must be ready when the spirit calls

Winded, Fannie slowed down, despite conjure music. Even a warhorse couldn’t run forever. They trotted along the tree-lined banks of the Amethyst River. The surrounding green lands were not as lush as Hezram’s preserve, yet the smell of goat manure, mangoes, and corn soothed Awa.

Farm laborers, who had no time for festivals, dotted the fields, threshing a second harvest. They halted as talking drums warned outlying villages and farms of disaster charging their way. Awa looked back at Holy City. Dream Gate towers and blue treasury cupolas were still in sight. Fear and death rode the wind and stung her eyes. As she blinked, blue cupolas blurred into red-tinged sand.

“Good citizens guzzled transgressor blood; it explodes through their skin,” the poison master said without looking.

Awa marveled. “The gates hold fast.”

“Of course. Silver lacework is cold conjure and impervious to fire and dust storms.”