Djola’s first weeks at sea were a blur. He was heart and stomach sick. Elephants trumpeted in his dreams, chastising him for poison sand blowing everywhere. He woke each morning not believing in the pirate ship that rocked under him or in the scoundrels who raided merchant ships and villages or in the story a griot might tell on the Master of Poison’s defeat at Council.

He should have gone with Samina and the children to Kyrie’s mountain. Bal loved waterfalls, Tessa the mango groves. Quint was happy anywhere they were all together. But the poison desert would chase them wherever they ran. To save them, he had to master Xhalan Xhala and conjure an antidote to poison sand.

Djola was an honored prisoner on the pirate flagship, a converted slaver with a large galley and several decks, ideal for Captain Pezarrat, his commanders, and their captives. Still, the food was disgusting—wormy meat, moldy bread, and sour brew. Djola threw up a lot and got into fights.

A northlander claimed giving up the old ways for a pirate life was better than being a corrupt master and chopping down the world to warm the emperor’s ass. Djola broke his arm and ribs, and almost choked him to death. Luckily the northlander pleaded for his life in Anawanama before passing out. Djola pulled trembling hands from the fellow’s neck. He put an ear to cracked lips and was relieved at the rasp of breath.

He shook the man and whispered, “The Master of Grain hid behind Lahesh masks and let guards drag me off. I persuaded Zizi to let savage Grain sit at the stone-wood table. I halted the Empire’s assault on Grain’s precious northland.” Rage made him wheeze. “Zizi owes me his life, many times over. Exile? A pirate life?”

The barely conscious pirate moaned. He had dark skin and pale eyes like Grain. Djola dragged him to sick bay, set the arm, and wrapped the ribs. Nobody fought with Djola after that. He moved into sick bay, ate his meals there, and concocted Lahesh potions to calm his spirit. The old healer was grateful if Djola set a bone or shared a pain-killing brew. Wounded men wept in his arms, grateful too, for a cool rag at their necks or a hand to hold as they faced death.

At night, Djola burned tree-oil lamps and spent uninterrupted hours reading books and redrawing ancient maps. He charted routes along the inland waterway for Captain Pezarrat, always steering the fleet to places Green Elders might have hidden sacred books. He collected tales of void-storms devastating farms, villages, and forests. Searching for a pattern in a chaos of details was torture. Patience eluded him.