“Not yet.” Djola saw hope in an elephant’s waddle into the trees.

“Hezram, Holy City’s high priest, offers Dream Gate secrets to protect us from poison desert. I hear you’re against his blood conjure.” Azizi gripped Djola. “Bleeding the people, even transgressors, is a high price.… Yet you’ve offered nothing else, except elephant tales.”

Djola grinned. “Fighting the enemy, you must avoid becoming one.”

Azizi rubbed bleary eyes. “Give me an answer, not Green Elder jumba jabba.”

“Not enough tree oil or blood for Dream Gate conjure, unless we sacrifice our forests, our people, and our children.”

Azizi licked cracked lips. “You know this witchdoctor spell?”

“Lahesh conjure. I know enough to steer clear.” Djola lied with half-truth.

“The Lahesh, a bold people … Everyone craves their wisdom…” Azizi stroked the arms of his Lahesh waterwheel chair then glanced at Kyrie’s empty place. “Even the Iyalawo fears Dream Gate conjure.” He sighed. “Foul winds blow through our streets. What else do we see?”

Good vision takes many eyes looking every direction. Green Elder words had been plaguing Djola all night, but he didn’t let this slip. He unfurled his scroll of spells.

10

Wild Child

Isra led the Elders and Sprites deeper into the forests, deeper into Anawanama territory. Nobody tracked them, and Yari sang, eerie melodies in Lahesh. Awa stumbled along, edgy. Good Empire citizens told horror tales on thieving, murdering savages who sold their own children—or anybody’s—to slavers. Mother had rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth at nonsense. Kenu said Mother’s family was part Anawanama. In a good mood, Father teased Mother about being a wild woman; if he was mad, he cursed her savage heritage and Awa, her wild child. Kenu said farmers were suspicious of savages who roamed the forests and never settled down. “Rootless demons living at the edge.” The edge of what? Kenu never said.

Elders ferried the Sprites across a swamp on a barge made from tupelo tree trunks. Hungry eyes looked up at Awa from water thick as mud. She jumped from the barge onto springy ground. A sour decay smell stung her nose as they hiked through cypress, tupelo, and other swamp trees. Yari sang to shy birds and bold bugs. Awa walked close to vie where the bugs were too enchanted to bite.

They came upon soot gray fields, farmland devastated by poison dust storms. Even wrapped in turbans and veils and wearing barbarian boots, the poison seeped in. Lungs burned and skin blistered. Isra cursed foolish farmers. Yari grew quiet and charged ahead, leading them up into a cloud forest. The misty air was a relief on scalded skin, but the climb was rough. Downhill in the gathering dark was worse.