“The griot of griots always tried to see past the gloom,” Djola grunted, “and what good was that? Scoundrels poisoned Yari while vie roamed Smokeland.”

Awa trembled. “If there is no hope, only fools willingly return to torment or death.”

“Exactly. Who told you that?”

“I figured it out for myself.” She scanned the skies, steering clear of void tendrils.

“So, living in the huts has granted you great wisdom—”

“Living anywhere. We could all be lost souls. We must never give up looking for each other.”

Djola scoffed. “Should I write that down for the Elder book? Every day a new page.”

“I’d be honored if you included me in any book or song.” Awa jammed a honeycomb in his mouth. “Clear your thoughts. The void lingers in you.”

Djola chewed reluctantly. The honey was full of swamp blossom and fireweed that dulled torment. Smoke cleared from his mind. “Smart girl, friend of bees and horses…”

“Don’t sneer. That slows our progress. And there’s nowhere to land.” They flew over fields of rotting strangle vines and cathedral tree carcasses, not the steamy swamplands or tall grass prairies he recalled. Despite their breakneck speed, blue sky was no closer. Awa groaned. “Reaching the winter region is a trick.”

Something hissed in the wind.

Djola jerked every direction. Beyond the rotting fields was poison sand. No trees or grass, no wild dogs, warhorses, or smoke-walkers in sight. “Zst! What region is this?”

“Poison desert of the mind.”

The honeycomb fell from his mouth. He cursed. “The void encroaches on every region with the blessings of witchdoctors and high priests.”

“Every region except the seventh.” Awa chomped her lip. “An impossible rhythm to find in my heart.”

“I know the way. Through the aurora to the starway, a light bridge.”

“Do you see one here?”

He looked up. Tendrils of smoke chased after them from every direction and covered the sky. On the ground, scurrying through tree ruins and poison sand, emaciated spirit slaves jabbered. Dark holes gaped where eyes and mouths should have been. Beneath translucent skin, collapsed lungs shivered and heart embers had almost gone dark. A few fiends sprang high, tangling worker bees in sticky hair. Sentinels came to their rescue, poking hefty stingers into bony chests. The fiends, and sentinels too, dissolved into a pool of indigo. Djola was transfixed by bee sacrifice.

Awa shook him. “Don’t think down. Think up. We must fly higher.”

“Who are those people?” Djola muttered.

“Spirit slaves.”

“I know that, but I’ve never seen so many…”

“Smokeland is no longer just a waste of space.” A deep voice jabbed Djola’s ears.

“Do you hear that?” Djola scanned a ravaged valley. A dead river cut a black ribbon through gray rubble. The last trickle of water boiled away. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Nowhere. Don’t listen.” Awa gritted her teeth. “You’ll be too heavy to fly.”