“No one has tamed me,” Djola declared.

“Azizi is a coward.” Nuar never liked the emperor, never understood how Djola could be a friend to their old enemies. “To preserve the Empire, Azizi and Council will sacrifice Anawanama, Zamanzi, and all the other northern tribes. They’ll sacrifice their own citizens, just like in Holy City.”

Djola spat. “High priest Hezram bleeds children for gate-conjure in Holy City. Azizi does nothing like this.”

“You’re a fool to trust any of these men.” The horse snorted agreement.

Djola stared at plump dark shadows swaying above them. He wanted to shout, but why disturb bats drumming themselves to sleep? “Of course I don’t trust them.”

“When we were young, you wanted to charm elephants and jackals, pull fire from the air, even ride behemoths and sink pirate ships.” Nuar’s voice cracked. “To protect our villages, like the heroes of old.”

“No shame in that.”

“Unless you’re the buffoon who betrays his own people.”

“A clown and a traitor? Is that how you think of me?” Djola hugged himself. Their mother had died when he was nine. He’d never met his father and grew up on the run, till half-brother Nuar found him. No People to hold him, just Nuar. “I chose a different path, brother, but am guided by the same spirit as you.”

“Huh.” Nuar scratched a scar on his chin from a blade meant for Djola. An old wound, it shouldn’t itch. He’d always defended his younger half-brother against other chiefs, even when Djola joined the Empire’s warriors. “You’re no traitor, but…” Nuar gazed out. “They call this Pirate’s Cove now.” Water sparkled. Red rock-roses drank the mist and enchanted hummingbirds. Green and purple wings blurred as the birds dipped beaks into eager blossoms. Nuar sighed. “Anawanama and Zamanzi roamed here once, free.”

“A few rogues flaunt the law, but no one steals our children or locks us up with the emperor’s blessing. Peace for twenty years.” Djola had seen to that. “Your eyes are full of yesterdays. I look for our tomorrow. Lahesh conjure.”

“Lahesh? Who can trust tricksters and dream tinkerers?” Nuar closed his eyes and laid the eagle claw against his cheek. “My Empire crops whither and blow your way. Azizi’s promises are dust.”

Djola wanted to press Nuar to his heart, taste the morning together, and remember their mother and wild adventures from their youth—not argue. “I don’t need to trust them. I’ll persuade them. My map has something for everyone.”

Nuar’s cloud-silk robes snapped in a gust of sand. He spread his arms wide. He raked the air with the eagle’s claw. “I know the weather. Do you?”