“But—” Awa’s tongue was heavy. “So many die who were not to blame.”

“A person always has a choice.”

“Living in a transgressor hut, we—”

“Can you swear you did nothing to cause poison desert?”

“No, I, I…” She chopped roots and tried to forget herself for two years.

“Did you resist? Any of you in the huts?”

Awa shrugged. “We just survived.”

“I thought as much,” he muttered. “Throughout the Empire, people are just surviving and so water, air, and earth become poison.”

“What do you know?”

“Denial is worse than poison sand.”

Awa shuddered. “Everyone has spirit debt…” She never imagined resisting, only escape—an impossible dream each night that sometimes included Holy City crumbling into poison sand. Prayers danced to the crossroads gods were always for sweet revenge that wouldn’t trouble her heart spirit with more debt. The poison master’s bring-down-the-mountain spell had answered these prayers.

“What happened on the bridge?” She changed the subject. “Tell me.”

“You saved me,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

He chuckled. “Rogue impulse.”

“How did we escape the tower collision? How could we—” She almost threw up. He patted her shoulder. She tried not to cringe at the silver-mesh glove.

“Look to that ridge.” He pointed. “Our destination will keep your stomach down until we can take a proper rest.”

The horizon was a steady seam of gray. A grove of young cathedral trees rose above a rocky outcrop. Bushy new growth was burnished bronze. Awa’s dizziness faded. Acres of trees at the base of the hills had been felled. The scarred landscape was infested with toxic brush and strangle vines. Soldier beetles thrived, eating exposed heartwood.

“Thief-lords.” The poison master spit out hatred.

“Crows feast on fat soldier beetles. They’re happy.”

“Too many beetles decimate everything. Barbarians steal today and tomorrow too.”

Cathedral trees supposedly belonged to the emperor. Precious oil, wood, seedpods, leaves, and roots were his living treasury. Sickly trees were chopped with an imperial license. Hezram held the license for Holy City and environs. He guarded his groves with warrior acolytes and Dream Gate conjure. The lands beyond the Narrows Bridge were disputed, so no licenses had been issued. Empire patrols were too scattered to keep thief-lords from raiding groves and hacking down trees.

“Barbarians will return with elephant brigades and fire bows to claim this young grove,” Awa said. “I hate them also.”

“Forgive my anger. It is old and unwise, leaking through a crack. My wife warned me…” The poison master shook his head. “Southern thief-lords are no better or worse than anyone. We must forgive—”

“I don’t forgive them.” Awa clutched her burnt arm. “I can’t.”

“Do you forgive yourself?”

“Do you?” Awa shouted. “Is reckoning fire and poison sand forgiveness?”

The poison master stiffened.

Awa leaned on Fannie’s neck, away from his anguish. “Your forgiveness is hollow.”

“At the crossroads we can always change direction.”