The Narrows Bridge was a worse wreck than Awa recalled. Abutments, piers, and arches were missing stones. Railings dangled over the side and got buffeted by debris rushing down the river. Muddy refuse skittered across the roadway. One more flood would wash this bridge away. That could happen this afternoon. Crows chattered worry and hope. Fannie took one step onto the bridge and balked.

“So much water. And the bridge wobbles like a loose tooth,” Awa said. “Too risky for her.”

The poison master glared at a whirlwind of ash and sand coming their way. “More risk if we don’t cross.” He jumped down and urged the mare a step at a time to the middle of the roadway. Slow going.

Uprooted baby cathedral trees, crashing and banging like giants at play, careened around a sharp bend in the river five hundred feet from the bridge. Rubble from cottages, libraries, and granaries had gotten caught in a rush of roots and branches. The tangled mass surged forward and smashed the center piers. Books went flying and glass shattered. Branches exploded into splinters. Grain fell like rain. The bridge shuddered as if it meant to come apart. Fannie kicked the poison master’s leg. He stumbled to the edge. Gripping Fannie with her thighs, Awa leaned over and yanked the strap of his bag with her strong hand before he tumbled into the water. Horse, man, and young woman slid through mud along a gap in the railing.

“Whayoa!” The poison master spread his cape wide, catching a rush of wind and slowing them down. He hurried them away from the railing over soggy scrolls and choking fish. Shrieks made him halt and turn. “Zst!” He tugged Fannie’s halter, but she wouldn’t budge.

A ten-story tower bashed into cathedral trees wedged in the river bend. Bright faces peered from barred windows. Rich, blood-sucking southerners were weeping and wailing at the mountain gods. Feeding on tree oil and transgressor blood, they’d expected protection from catastrophe and a long, long life. They clawed at bars meant to keep danger out. Awa hated their rosy, well-fed cheeks. A boy of thirteen or fourteen bled from his eyes. Awa gritted her teeth against a thrill of pleasure. In a moment, tree trunks would snap and the tower would smash the bridge. They were all doomed. Her last thoughts should not be spite or fear.