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Chapters (102)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Map
  5. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  6. BOOKI
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. BOOKII
  30. 1
  31. 2
  32. 3
  33. 4
  34. 5
  35. 6
  36. 7
  37. 8
  38. 9
  39. 10
  40. 11
  41. 12
  42. 13
  43. 14
  44. 15
  45. 16
  46. 17
  47. 18
  48. 19
  49. BOOKIII
  50. 1
  51. 2
  52. 3
  53. 4
  54. 5
  55. 6
  56. 7
  57. 8
  58. 9
  59. 10
  60. 11
  61. 12
  62. 13
  63. 14
  64. 15
  65. 16
  66. 17
  67. BOOKIV
  68. 1
  69. 2
  70. 3
  71. 4
  72. 5
  73. 6
  74. 7
  75. 8
  76. 9
  77. 10
  78. 11
  79. BOOKV
  80. 1
  81. 2
  82. 3
  83. 4
  84. 5
  85. 6
  86. 7
  87. 8
  88. 9
  89. 10
  90. 11
  91. 12
  92. 13
  93. 14
  94. 15
  95. 16
  96. 17
  97. 18
  98. Glossary
  99. Acknowledgments
  100. Also by Andrea Hairston
  101. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  102. Newsletter Sign-up

“We are the weather. Your words, brother.” Djola’s voice reverberated in the cave. Startled bats chirped a warning he felt more than heard as they flew into darkness away from intruders. “We can’t leave Azizi and Council to map tomorrow alone.”

“No.” Nuar shuddered.

Djola squeezed his hand. “What chance do we have if I don’t risk everything?”

Nuar donned a turban, and draped fine mesh across his mouth. Storm protection for the bit of bluster? He made a crossroads sign with the claw over Djola’s heart, a blessing, then trotted off. Djola watched until a sand demon obscured man and horse. The orange whirl was more debris than bluster. Djola felt achy and jangly, as if he should have taken better care with his words. The wind might turn fierce, snatch older brother from his horse, and smash him on the rocks.

“Fatazz!” Djola cursed an orange sky. He should head home, but he wasn’t ready for another sandstorm—sweet or poison—or a fight with his pirate wife. He just wanted to kiss Samina’s purple-tinted lips, hold the deep curve of her waist, and taste the raintree scent on her skin one last time before heading to Council. Samina could fortify him for the battles ahead, if she had a mind to. The sand settled and the storm sputtered out. Djola squinted at shadows. Nuar had already vanished into the trees.

A good storm-sense didn’t mean older brother was right about everything.

2

Awa

When Awa was a twelve-year-old Garden Sprite, Green Elders declared Smokeland a true realm of vision and spirits. Awa and the other Sprites were not to fear or make fun of sacred space as most people did. Smokeland was a vast territory of possibilities and maybe-nots, but never very far from what was happening right now. Smoke-walkers were intrepid adventurers exploring the unknown, dream tinkerers who shifted the shape of the everyday.

Awa never told the Green Elders or anybody, but she’d become a Smokeland-believer at six. Whenever Mother’s spirit faded away like smoke on the wind, Awa held tight to Mother’s breath body, sometimes for hours. Awa sang, told herself stories, or talked to bees and wild dogs until Mother returned from Smokeland with herbs from nowhere in this world. Awa hugged cold from Mother’s thoughts, shook dead weight from Mother’s bones, and combed fearful snarls from her wiry hair. Watching over Mother’s breath body was a lot to ask of a young daughter who had snarls and sorrows of her own.

Awa’s older brothers would have felt duty-bound to report a smoke-walking witch woman to Father. Being a good Empire citizen, Father would have turned Mother in to the high priest in Holy City or killed her to avoid shame, so guarding her breath body during illicit adventures fell to Awa.