Tessa’s and Quint’s hissing replies got snatched by the wind. Djola only heard last breath. Cathedral saplings wove these words into their red-leaf song. The transgressor girl added a soothing harmony. She patted his thigh and startled him.

“Not yet the hour for my last breath,” he said. “Basawili.” One word in Anawanama yet so much to do. “In Arkhys City, I must lay disaster at Azizi’s feet and force Council to give up the Dream Gate illusion, before it’s too late to save anything. Years they’ve wasted.” Haints whistled from behind rocks and bushes. “Stop! I promised your mother. She still loves the world. I do what she asks.” Time enough for his death after that. “Where is your sister, where is Bal? She must honor her father.”

His haint-children went silent and dissolved into cold shadows, leaving a reproach rustling through the leaves. The warhorse pricked up her ears and swiveled them.

The transgressor girl narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Azizi banished me. Masters killed my half-brother, and…” Djola licked dry lips. “Since my wife and children were … Since they died, I’m not always in my right mind.”

“I knew a Sprite named Bal.” Love and longing colored these words. The transgressor girl leaned back against him. She smelled of horse dung, cinnamony tree oil, and rot. He should tend her wounds when they made camp.

“Where my people are from,” he said evenly, “Bal is the name for a second child, born under a mango moon, a gift of fire and wind.”

“Bal went off to soldier, when lapsed Elders and northlanders raided our enclave.”

“Northern tribes raided Green Elders?”

“To kill vesons or convert them, and Bal was fearless, resisting—”

“No glory or love for soldiers these days, only destruction and death.”

“How do you know?” The girl let anger flare. “Bal is a shadow warrior, determined to survive. She loves life. No matter her fate, that is glorious.”

“I suppose.”

“What happened to your Bal?” the girl demanded.

“I don’t wish to speak of her.” Hope was a pointless distraction. He squinted down the road. Abandoned cathedral stumps rotted in the gravel. The lush young grove was farther up than he thought.

The girl stroked the horse. “How many more leagues?”

The road looked endless. “This steep incline and whispering shades saved those trees above from elephant brigades.”

“Just say you don’t know.” Her boldness was strange comfort. “Sorry…”

“Keep speaking your mind. It’s refreshing, like cathedral tree song.”

The warhorse sidestepped pink fungus glowing in twilight and got tangled in strangle vines creeping around rocks. The barbs were sharp enough to tear up her legs. The warhorse halted, snorting steam. Sweat foamed on twitching flanks. She was too hot even in icy drizzle.