“Hezram offers gate security.” Arms clapped the backs of other men raring to fight. He roared, the confident center of a whirlwind. “The Master of Poisons defeated that pirate stinker, Pezarrat. Now the Salty Sea offers safe transport to Empire ships, and soon the poison desert will leave us be. That means more tree oil for everyone and plenty to eat.”

Djola shook his head. Arms calmed foul tempers, but he had to be lying or worse, he’d been fed lies he believed. He marched past Kyrie without recognizing her and never glanced at Djola.

“Today people from everywhere, even Holy City, come to celebrate with Emperor Azizi and Queen Urzula who we are together. Let us feast and sing and laugh.” Arms led the crowd into the oasis garden.

“How do you know that builder?” Bal asked a watery-eyed Awa. “You told me about Kenu, I think.” Had Awa mentioned a brother Kenu to Djola?

“I don’t care who Kenu is.” Kyrie put out the last torch and glared at Awa. “No surprise to see a familiar face during the Festival of Memories. Yari spoke truth—everyone comes. So even if the dead return to you, remember our masquerade.”

Awa disciplined her shock. “We juggle fire.” She pulled a placid Green Elder face.

“Arms has brought good news,” Djola said. “Zizi expects us.”

“Fatazz!” Bal peered at the citadel bridge. “Hezram will get to him before we do.”

“Hezram will take an afternoon to settle in.” Kyrie stowed the torches in a bag on her back. “Unless protocol has changed, Azizi won’t see him until after the storm, when the air is clear and chill, after supper.”

Djola nodded. “Zizi might put him off until tomorrow.”

Temple altars in the square belched oily smoke, a flagrant offering of tree oil to indifferent mountain gods. Awa gagged. “Hezram gets ready for Nightmare Gates.”

Kyrie spat. “And spreads poison desert.”

Djola gritted his teeth. “I found no spell to hang fallen stars back in the night or heal a rip in the sky, no conjure to return the dead to life. But—” The sun crested over Mount Eidhou and light exploded in his marble eye, a vision. “I see…” a fiery dust storm consuming the world.

“What?” Bal gripped Yari’s drum as it rattled.

“The dust…” Djola muttered. “Xhalan Xhala plaguing me.”

Mango lifted her trunk. Elephants could sense a storm fifty leagues away.

Awa pointed. “A void whirlwind, like in Jumbajabbaland, coming this way.”

Kyrie squinted at a clear horizon. “At least an hour away.”

“These storms keep no time. They pop up anywhere, anytime,” Djola said.