Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

  Like Father? Jod was a pain, but not—“Someone who knows us and hates us and works against who we are?” Awa blurted this.

  Isra put a hand to vie’s lips, crossing fingers then flicking them in the air to say, “Just between us.” Clumsy hand-talk. Vie gestured at Yari, “Better to find out Jod’s true spirit before he sits in a circle of Elders.”

  Awa headed back for a second load of books. She would never tell Jod that Yari had doubts. In fact, she never spoke to Jod. He brushed her off like dust from his boot on the way to fussing with Bal. Jod and Bal fought over anything. Jod was bigger and stronger than Bal, and thought he was smarter than everybody, but Bal was more skilled. She used his strength and arrogance against him.

  Jod’s Aido cloth always unraveled—he was a worse weaver than Awa and never carried shade with him. Bal could disappear in bright sun, like Isra, Yari, and the best Elder shadow warriors. Jod called Bal’s skill cheating. Isra broke up fights between them before Jod suffered inglorious defeat or called in Cal and Neth for an ambush. Jod claimed ambush by his friends wasn’t cheating.

  Yari thought most fights were a waste of spirit. Vie scolded Bal for letting Jod bait her and Jod for letting Bal make him itch and steam and lash out. Bal never picked a fight with Jod. She just never backed down when he picked one with her. Bal being Bal made Jod want to fight. Why was Bal to blame?

  Awa rehearsed a speech to argue with Yari: We have to stand up for who we are. She was always arguing in her mind with Yari, never face-to-face like Isra. She caught her foot on a root and tripped, Yari’s books slipping from her arms.

  “Let me help you,” Jod said, rushing toward her.

  “I can manage.” Awa scowled at him, suspicious.

  “I’ll carry the big ones.” Jod picked up heavy tomes and smiled at Awa blankly, as if they’d never met before. Hazel eyes looked right through her to Bal who tugged baby goats onto solid ground. “No problem.” Jod toted the heaviest books in one arm. He was dressed as an Elder in a blue cloud-silk robe. A new bow was slung across his back; a diamond-tipped blade hung from his belt.

  Jod ran past Bal and headed to the surface. He was good with a knife and better than anyone at giving Isra the answers vie wanted to hear. Isra praised Jod even when he was mediocre, and Jod would be an Elder before Bal, who was excellent at everything!

  Bal had chosen to wait and gain more skill before crossing over. Never let the enemy know your heart. Bal hid jealousy and anger well, but Awa caught flaring nostrils and measured breath in Jod’s wake. Jod being Jod and everyone thinking him handsome and brave made Bal want to fight. Was that wrong?

  The enclave set up camp on a grassy saddle between mountain peaks. Tents were pitched, goats corralled, and water hauled in. A few weavers set up looms. Awa stared at unfamiliar cliffs. She had no idea where they were. If she chose griot for crossover, she’d have to do better at finding her way. Maps were tricky stories. Tell the wrong tale and you were lost. Tonight she’d read the stars and orient herself better.

  “I wish it wasn’t so steep,” Isra said. “Up is great, but down. Zst!”

  “Your knees are fine,” Yari said. “This is the safest place for the crossover ceremony, since we’re in such a hurry. Your idea.”

  “No, their idea.” Isra pointed at Jod and crew. “Let’s hope they don’t fail.”

  Yari sighed. “This test is good for everyone.”

  Awa expected Jod to fail. Bal was fast and quiet and could track anyone, even Isra. After sunset when festival tables had been set up, Awa saw Jod steal an Aido cloth cape and sneak off. Stealth wasn’t his downbeat. Awa lay on a table, staring at an inky sky, waiting for stars to rise. She always kept track of the nights. Bal appeared over her. Green-flecked eyes flashed light from the cook fires. Her chin was sharp, her grin crooked. A vision.

  “Jod says I love him and he loves me, and that’s why we fight,” Bal said.

  Awa lost a few breaths. She was jealous at the thought. “Do you?”

  “Love him? No.” Bal snorted. “Yari’s right. Jod’s cocky behavior is no reason to lose myself.”

  “Everyone makes excuses for Jod.” Awa balled her fists. “Nothing is ever his fault.”

  “That’s true too.” Bal poked Awa’s tight curls. A sluggish bee burrowed deeper into her hair. Everyone worried the bees might sting her, but they never did.

  “Jod calls tormenting you love,” Awa said.

  “Don’t be jealous.” Bal leaned in so close, her features blurred. Awa closed her eyes and savored Bal’s sweetgrass and iron scent. Bal pressed her lips against Awa’s cheeks, eyes, and lips. “Jod doesn’t know what love is.” Bal’s tongue tickled Awa’s nose.

  Awa giggled. She didn’t know what love was either. If someone asked, she’d have no way to explain it. A griot should have a story for anything. Yari believed loving even an enemy could change them, but Awa knew that love didn’t always work. She opened her eyes at a cool breeze across her body. Bal had vanished, leaving tingles and aches behind. The moon was a slash of light on the horizon. The stars twinkled overhead, laughing at her. Why would Bal love someone like Awa?

  8

  Lapsed Elders

  Sometime during the night, without anyone noticing, Bal and a few other Sprites slipped with Elder scouts into the woods to track Jod, Cal, and Neth. In the morning, Awa helped cooks prepare a celebrate-new-life feast. When Elder eyes were elsewhere, she stole mango slices, goat cheese, and honey cakes smeared with nut butter. Why should everyone fast? Practicing hunger discipline never made sense to Awa.

  Jod and his allies were resourceful. Nobody had found them by midday. Isra was relieved that they might prove worthy. Yari was suspicious and vie usually believed the best of anyone. As the afternoon wore on, Yari climbed the highest mountain and put a tube of wood and glass to one eye to see far. Panting and sweating, Awa and Isra joined vie at the peak.

  “What do you see?” Awa asked.

  “Lion and elephant war masks.” Yari sighed. “Zamanzi fighting and dying over dust.”

  “The peace is broken.” Isra rubbed swollen knees. “And the exiled peace-master searches for you.”

  “On a pirate ship.” Yari clenched vie’s jaw. “He wants something. Some secret.”

  “He begs you to relent,” Isra said. “I read his last letter.”

  Yari jabbed Isra. “You spoke against him before.”

  “I was wrong.” Isra winked. “I thought you loved him once.” Yari looked unsure of love. Awa had never seen this face. Isra gripped Yari’s arm. “He’s not Hezram. And Hezram’s not your fault.” Awa was baffled. How could Hezram be Yari’s fault? Isra murmured in Yari’s ear. “If the peace-master and Azizi met Awa, Bal, Jod, or any of them, Xhalan Xhala—they’d see tomorrow and resist men like Hezram.”

  “Perhaps.” Yari put the tube to the other eye. “We should take care. The victors of this battle will steal whatever they can.”

  Awa frowned. “What do we have that Zamanzi want?”

  Yari snorted. “They’ll come for us no matter how little we have. So Isra tells us.”

  “You think so too.” Isra took the tube and observed the Zamanzi battle then turned to the mountain opposite them. “I see veins in the leaves and the sleepy eyes of cats.”

  “I like watching birds,” Yari said. “The colorful wing feathers.”

  “What a marvelous bit of Lahesh wim-wom you’ve made.” Isra scanned to the foot of the mountain. Blood drained from vie’s face. Yari grabbed the tube. Isra sounded an alarm on a seashell and ran down the slope without a word, knee pain forgotten.

  “What?” Awa tried not to panic.

  “Keep watch.” Yari thrust the wim-wom tube at her and ran off too.

  Awa’s skin prickled and her breath was short. This was a griot’s task. Calling on Sprite discipline, she looked through the tube.

  Bal cradled one of Jod’s friends, Neth. Blood soaked his tunic. Neth pulled Bal’s ear to his lips and spoke. Bal nodded, her face calm except f
or nostrils flaring once. Awa wished the tube brought sound as close as sight. Neth’s hand fell away, his head lolled. Bal closed his eyes and indulged a silent scream before rushing into the trees. Never let the enemy know your heart.

  A crow flew to Neth’s body, quick to smell death. As it pecked, Awa looked to the arid plain on the west side of the mountain. Zamanzi warriors clashed, elephants against lions. In the east, three riders left the trees and headed along the Empire Road toward Holy City. Awa stuffed the tube in her pocket and hurried to camp in gathering twilight. Every story she made for what she’d seen was terrible. She wished they’d never come to Isra’s secret place.

  It was a moonless night, too many stars to count. The enclave came together around feast fires. Tents rippled in a chill wind. Fresh bread and stewed fruits steamed on the tables, food for a celebration, not a funeral. Griots set aside masks, seedpods, and bells. Deep djembe drums filled the mountain caves with somber rhythms. People huddled together and singers wailed. Jod and Cal never returned. They rode barbarian horses to Holy City with a stranger. Scouts carried Neth in and laid him in a rocky streambed grave.

  “We are tested,” Isra said. “Let’s remember who Neth was and who we are.”

  Nobody had much to say about Neth. Jod and Cal were his best friends, his only friends. Neth was the Holy City acolyte who Yari talked into joining the enclave, the same time Awa joined. She remembered stealing food with Neth when they were younger. Why mention that or Neth ambushing Bal for Jod? Awa made up a story about collecting mushrooms and finding the best ones that was almost true—Neth loved mushrooms. People nodded as if they remembered her lie and covered Neth with rocks. Bal held the final rock. She told what Neth said with his last breaths:

  A woman came to rescue the three of them, someone who knew Yari, Isra, and this secret place—an Iyalawo or lapsed Elder who brought horses and flung curses at depraved Elders. One horse was lame, so only two Sprites could escape. She demanded a fight to see who was strong enough to go with her and who would die here. Jod stabbed Neth when he protested. Jod and Cal rode off with the lapsed Elder, leaving Neth to bleed out.

  Bal ran out of words and dropped the last rock.

  “Jod and Cal stole maps, conjure herbs, and Aido cloth to pay their way,” Yari said.

  “And books.” Awa felt terrible for giving Jod special ones. Jod stuck a knife in a friend’s chest, for a horse and a chance to ride off with a scoundrel. “I don’t understand. We’re not prisoners. They could have left any time.”

  “No family, no prospects, how to live?” Bal asked good questions. “Jod thinks he knows too much to live worse than savages. Neth told him tales of Holy City.”

  “I brought Jod to the enclave.” Isra stomped around Neth’s grave—a display of anger more than grief. Vie spoke the staccato barbarian tongue. “Be warned. Good citizens say that Sprites get perverted by Green Elders. Many of us live as neither man nor woman. What could be worse?” Isra paused. “Well, lapsed Elders are worse. They’re traitors, perverts, and murderers.”

  The enclave hooted disdain. Awa flinched, thinking of Father. Was he really as bad as Jod? The enclave howled.

  Yari hushed them and tapped the talking drum. “Perhaps Neth tried to stab Jod, and Jod killed him in self-defense.” Vie turned to Bal. “You arrived just as horses were charging away, right?”

  “Yes.” Bal blinked, confused. “That’s possible. I didn’t see the fight.”

  Awa jumped up. “You and Isra saw the fight through the tube. Tell us what actually happened.”

  “Whoever knows that?” Yari shook ropes of hair. This mystery was a shadow warrior test. The entire trip was a test for all the Sprites.

  “People who speak against Green Elders could be right.” Isra kissed Yari’s palm. “Everything we believe could be false. I know from my own life. Jod wore a mask, stole our secrets, our hearts.”

  Awa wanted to scream. “So how can we trust anybody or anything?” Other Sprites grumbled with her. “Is there a verse in The Green Elder Songs for Living and Dying to help us pierce illusions?”

  “Look around. Anyone could betray us.” Yari gave her an indulgent smile. Awa bristled. Yari drummed and danced from Neth’s grave to the other griots. They donned bird masks, picked up drums, and followed vie. “Every day I think of leaving.”

  Younger Sprites and even Elders gasped.

  Yari danced around them. “Every day you prove I’m wrong to doubt. Neth doesn’t breathe anymore, but your breath makes my heart beat.” Awa, Bal, and a few older Sprites rolled their eyes. Yari laughed in their sullen faces. “Every day we test our truth and if we discover a better truth, we change. Trust that.” Elders snapped their fingers, agreeing. Bal joined them, but Awa resisted.

  “Jod and Cal have decided who they mean to be and crossed over.” Isra poured a cup of honey wine, spilled a few drops on the grass, then downed the rest. “Let’s eat. The bread is warm.” Vie sat at a feast table. “We celebrate new life.”

  Yari played infectious upbeats, lifting spirits. Stomachs growled and mouths watered. The fast had turned everyday food into a special delight. Awa wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was sour, her mouth full of unspoken words. She and Bal sat close, rubbing shoulders and thighs. Bal tickled her clenched muscles and kissed her flaring nose. The griots blasted fire from their mouths and burned off the last of the foul mood.

  Being rid of Jod and his friends was a good thing. Awa and Bal could celebrate that.

  9

  Everywhere Except Sick Bay

  The sun was a white disk behind mist. Djola stood on deck by the steer-man. He practiced pulling fire, the key to Xhalan Xhala. His skin crawled and his mouth was ash. He couldn’t call a flicker or spark, too jittery inside. No letter from Grain in a while. Maybe Pezarrat’s course was too erratic to track, so Kyrie sent letters through a wise-woman corridor to empty sea.

  The pirate fleet had almost gone to the floating cities several times, but Pezarrat always changed his mind. Steering clear of Urzula’s patrol, the fleet dawdled in a northland cove—near what was left of Anawanama and Zamanzi territory. Spies alerted Pezarrat when Zamanzi warriors left their camps to attack caravans, and he sent in raiders. Pirates suffered few casualties and took whomever they wanted. Zamanzi often surrendered without a fight. The fleet was waiting for raiding-parties to return with captives.

  On a ledge above the water, rogue twisters appeared from nowhere, from static and shimmer, and pulverized bushes and trees. In a blink, the storms vanished. A wise-woman corridor was more stable than that. These bits of folded space collapsed quickly. Leafless bushes flailed in the wind. Listless waves lapped against the flagship hull. Silvery haints hissed in the sails, sounding like Tessa, Bal, and Quint. A rope smacked Djola’s back and dispelled visions. His family hadn’t walked from the death lands to haunt him. They were prisoners, under house arrest or in a cell in Arkhys City. Azizi would never let harm come to them. Djola had to believe this.

  “They’ll come soon.” Pezarrat stood at the prow haggling with good Empire citizens over the price of captives and a surcharge to ferry them to Thunder River, the Empire’s northern border.

  “Costly,” a reddish brown citizen declared, a rich man who drank tree oil and transgressor blood for long life. This brew gave even the blackest skin a reddish glow. Djola was disgusted. He was on deck to vouch for the captives’ health and guarantee a high price. Azizi and Urzula outlawed raiding for captives, so Pezarrat claimed desperate northlanders sold their daughters and even sons. Pezarrat’s price was reasonable and his lie easy to swallow, even easier to repeat. Good citizens traveled to the cove to buy cheap labor for farms, mines, brothels, or who knows what. Djola was a part of this filthy exchange.

  “Demon fog is slowing my people down,” Pezarrat said. He and Empire men laughed at northlanders who thought fog was demon’s breath.

  Another minute without murder seemed impossible.

  Djola tried to pull fire again. Kyrie made it look simple—a
flick of a finger and she had a spark. Heat was everywhere. He needed to entice enough of it to—“Fatazz!” A ball of sparks burnt his hand. He threw the heat into the waves. Painful sparks dribbled from his fingers. He had yet to master chill hands or chill heart. Good citizens stepped away from his antics, alarmed.

  Pezarrat smirked at their fear. “Conjurers get restless in fog.”

  Djola played the clown, splashing in a water barrel, muttering Anawanama. Kyrie knew how to call sparks and stay cool. She knew how to sit on her cold mountain and let his family burn in Arkhys City. He should make his mind a fortress and lock up his heart. Kyrie did that years ago when assassins poisoned the man she loved.

  Lahesh conjurers spent a lifetime mastering Xhalan Xhala. Djola didn’t have a lifetime. A mind-heart fortress might be the trick he needed for chill hands and heart, for feeling the motion in stillness, sensing truth in a lie, and changing the unknown into the known. Steam poured from the barrel and he groaned. Fingers were still on fire. Flesh didn’t burn away, yet that’s how it felt.

  The good citizens ignored Djola. Pirates led a chain of Zamanzi onto the boat: girls who had yet to bleed and boys with high voices and smooth faces. Wounds festered around their chains. Mucous dribbled from noses. Djola avoided bloodshot eyes. As the flagship headed out, the children spewed on one another. If sold to the water, they’d have to get over that or puke themselves to death. Djola’s Anawanama mother had slaved in a mine. She escaped to Arkhys City slums and died coughing up mine dust. What would she think of her son now?

  “They’re fine,” Djola declared. “The waves make them spew.” He tumbled down the ladder to sick bay, pushed past Orca, and downed a seed and silk potion. He stared out the porthole at the fog, waiting for the bad mood to blur. He sank into an almost pleasant haze till pirates dragged captives down the ladder and barged in the door.

  “Stop.” Djola used a command voice and stumbled to the door. “Turn around.”