Dizzy at the thought of such power, Djola leaned into a Lahesh mask, a creature with metal-mesh hair, ruby eyes, and stone teeth in a maul the size of his head. The dusty fire-breather made him sneeze. Xhalan Xhala was a formidable challenge, a Lahesh spell of spells, a closely guarded treasure, conjure that might break a mind. Samina would not approve and Nuar never trusted wily shadow warriors who married their enemies, but—

“Ignorance won’t save us,” he whispered to the mask. Wielding Xhalan Xhala to halt the poison desert, Djola could show Council, his wife and brother, and everybody that he was indeed a master of the impossible.

Dinner candles dribbled away. A waste of beeswax, it was still light. The high priest of Arkhys City and Council masters sat in roomy chairs around the stone heart of a long dead cathedral tree. They held their heads and sulked in their beards. No one touched a feast of roasted goat, spicy tubers, seaweed, and nut butters except flies and a cheeky rat. Emperor Azizi had a strange fondness for rats.

Djola slid into his chair. Anawanama spells carved in the arms tickled. A savage chair for a savage master. This used to irritate him, but his chair sat next to Azizi’s now. Djola tossed cheese at friend rat, a sable fellow who’d sat in his lap on occasion. Truth be told, Djola liked rats too. Masters groused, as if purple tides, crop failures, and thief-lord raids were the rat’s fault.

“Don’t indulge the nasty beasts.” The Master of Grain stood barefoot on the warm hearth stones. A tent of wood piled shoulder high threw flames up into the chimney. Grain’s blue eyes sparkled against black skin as he soaked in heat like a panther gathering energy for the hunt. He was young, shrewd, and on the rise. A beardless northlander who’d disavowed his tribe (no one knew which one) to join the Empire, Grain had good reason for hating rats. He reminded Djola of himself, twenty years ago.

“Another poison storm ripped through the capital. Two dead.” Grain shuddered.

“So much unrest.” High priest Ernold rubbed crimson tattoos on his brown bald head. Gravy stains on his priestly robe looked like blood. He strode among Azizi’s helmet-mask collection: a hundred warriors with thick necks and bulging eyes, all stolen from vanquished northlanders, tribes whose names had been lost. “Hezram in Holy City offers Dream Gate conjure to Azizi. Blood sacrifice would stop poison sand and bring order. Security.”

“Kurakao!” The Master of Water praised the gods. A handsome rascal, yet this evening his silver eyes were dull gray, his strong back and shoulders hunched, his smooth skin sallow. “We should accept Hezram’s offer.”