“Why should anyone trust a savage rascal?” Urzula glowered at him.
“We northlanders have much to offer the world.”
“Do you?”
“I didn’t come to burden you about void-storms. What news of my family?”
Urzula looked away from him to the water. “I hear of your adventures at sea.”
“I hear Ernold and Money plotted against Nuar, Samina, and my children.”
“Lilot says Council talk is of pirate raids—barbarian cities burn in acid-conjure and scoundrels steal Zamanzi children for brothels, mines, and warships.” She blamed Djola for Pezarrat’s breaches.
“Zamanzi villagers are easy prey with their warriors out raiding Empire caravans.”
Urzula gritted her teeth. “So much unrest since you left my husband’s side.”
Djola stepped between her and the sea. “He banished me.”
“The masters wanted to kill you. Should Zizi have let them?”
“You’re my wife’s friend. Have you seen her?”
“I travel the coast from the Golden Gulf to the Zamanzi north, trying to hold the peace against renegades.” She lit a spark torch. “Lilot, my cook, watches over Azizi while I’m gone. Rebels run riot and Council plays into their hands.” Lilot was a more powerful witch than Urzula. Griots claimed they were lovers, and Lilot was willing to do anything for her queen. “I’m here visiting my children. They study at the library.”
“Did you see my children before you left?” Djola lay on the ground at her feet, his face in gravel. “Please. Tell me.”
“They came to Arkhys City a while ago. Why do such a thing?” Urzula sighed. “I hear rumors of a trial. They live still.”
“Alive, but in the hands of my enemies.” He struggled up.
“Azizi’s masters say you’re a rogue pirate who deserves worse than death.”
“My family suffers”—his voice cracked—“in my place.”
“Azizi and the Master of Arms won’t let anyone hurt your family.”
“This is my hope.” He leaned close. “Perhaps you could—”
“Samina waits for you”—Urzula’s jaw was set, her dark eyes slits—“to finish your mission and rescue her and your children.” She took his hand. “What will you do?”
Djola snatched his hand away. “I’ll make my mind a fortress.”
“Iyalawo crossroads conjure. You could lose yourself.” Urzula sighed. “Do what you must do, but hurry.”
Djola raced off, arguing with Samina all the way down the mountain. Why take the children to their enemies, even searching for him? Nothing reasonable occurred to him. Spark torches glittered on the walkways—weapons and nightlights. He wanted to steal one, storm Council, and blast his enemies like a fire-breathing beast of legend. But men had burnt themselves up trying to wield stolen torches. “Zst!” Djola longed for a flask of seed and silk.
On a barge to the flagship, Orca chattered about stepping through a sky window, being touched by a demon, and seeing wonders no one had painted before: a bridge of stars and a great blue eye watching over the light. “In sky windows, you see what you imagine.”
Pezarrat ignored jumba jabba and agreed with Djola that lingering in the floating cities and paying docking fees was pointless. As the fleet headed out, Djola chased the old healer from sick bay and sat on a prayer rug with Vandana and Orca.
“I’ve lost too much time”—his voice cracked—“distracted or blank or addled from seed and silk.” He held up a hand as they protested. “Don’t argue. To master new conjure, I’ll make my mind a fortress and seal my heart. Otherwise I’ll go mad.”
Vandana pursed her lips. “You’ll be patient. You won’t believe lies or crave seed and silk, but it’ll be hard to feel anybody else’s pain, joy, or fear.” She stroked his face. “Take care to banish despair. Locked inside, despair will fester and ruin you.”
“Samina and the children wait for me to rescue them,” Djola sputtered. “I’ll hold fast to memories of them.” He thought of Quint’s musical laugh as he soared through the air; Bal’s pout when she couldn’t ride to Council and protect him from fools and haints; Tessa’s grin as she offered a scroll-spell for avoiding danger. Instead of a good-bye embrace, Samina balled her fists and pounded his chest. “My wife’s hands always smelled of almonds and raintree blossoms. Conjuring these memories will clear despair.”
Vandana grunted, unconvinced, but she sharpened the chisel and every needle. She mixed blue-green Anawanama dyes and silvery dust from Lahesh gate-mesh. Orca shaved Djola’s head and chest. Peering into the cracked mirror, Djola drew Vévés on his skull and over his heart: a lattice of interlocking roads and spirals, shooting stars and spiderwebs that invoked crossroads deities.
“I’ll also hold fast to my mission.” His voice ached. “I don’t know if what I seek is possible, if what I do matters…”
“Everything matters,” Orca said. “That’s what you say to me.”
“I can’t recall why my wife and I fought that last time.” Djola poured a libation to the crossroads gods. “With this conjure and everything I do from now on, I ask for her forgiveness.”
Vandana cut the Vévés into his flesh and filled the wounds with the fortress-spell.
14
Surviving at the Crossroads
When the stars aligned, Green Elder clans from across the Empire and beyond the maps gathered at a secret oasis in the sweet desert for a crossover festival. They honored the dead, welcomed the future, and celebrated freedom. Feast tables were laid out around a gurgling spring in a windswept canyon. Honey wine cooled in cisterns belowground. Potions were brewed, and Elders crafted masks, instruments, and dances. They found lost words and invented new ones.
Intoxicating aromas wafted from a dozen cook tents nestled in scraggly midnight-fruit trees whose roots dipped in the spring below. Berries had fermented in the rocky soil. Drunk crows hopped underfoot, screeching and teasing everyone as if they were honored guests. Wine from fermented midnight berries was a festival treat and made everyone’s eyes glow in the dark.
Awa and Bal had turned seventeen and decided to cross over. Bal was as tall as Yari and as ferocious as Isra. She crafted powerful bows and sleek arrows that flew true. She forged Lahesh blades to cut through stone and metal. Everyone loved to watch her dance along tightropes and ridges, balancing anger and love. A true shadow warrior, Bal preferred cunning to spilling blood.
Awa drew sky maps, silver stars on dark brown cloth, for all the seasons. She wrote stories in Anawanama, Lahesh, Zamanzi, and barbarian tongues, for every region west of Mama Zamba. She knew a few dirt poems and the language of bees and trees. A true griot, she could puzzle her way through any knot, squabble, or mystery and then offer a good story. All of Yari’s and Isra’s Sprites did amazing conjure, and the Elders boasted about a bold new world coming.
The night before the crossover ceremony, Isra made a new loom and Yari crafted a double-headed talking drum. Vie decorated it with Aido cloth, cathedral seeds, and glass beads. Gifts for Bal—Awa was pleased and jealous. Isra and Yari wouldn’t let Awa open a bag of story-spells and Lahesh wim-wom. Awa hoped this was her gift. As everyone gathered for the Sprites’ last story celebration, Yari slipped with Isra behind a midnight tree and used hand-talk from the Ishba people. Awa picked berries across from them unnoticed, not spying, just overhearing.