“What could you do against Jod and his set?” Meera let go of Awa and danced around him, showing off the cocoon and carapace anklets Awa made for her. She shook the rattles at his crotch and tickled him with her toes.

“They’re all thugs, still…” Other acolytes would have tormented Rokiat for his soft ways, but he rarely left the meadows, and everybody feared his warhorse friends. “I’m not afraid of Jod or the rest.”

“Jod and his crew have no pity, no heart,” Awa said. “You should be afraid.”

“I’m not.” Playing a brave man and risking all for Meera thrilled Rokiat. Lovesick fool. He could end up cut and bled too. Who would tend his precious horses then? Oblivious, Rokiat sang an epic in a dead language about a veson shadow warrior who defied emperors, had many, many lovers, and became one of the first Green Elders, roaming free, talking to the ancestors, and recovering lost wisdom. Someone like Yari!

Rokiat could make anyone’s heart ache when he sang. He even charmed high priest Hezram. Next week after the festival, Hezram would put the old Master of Horses out to pasture and give Rokiat keys to every meadow lock. All the priests and cooks trusted good-natured Rokiat. He was the perfect lover if Awa and Meera were ever to escape. Awa tried to like him. She sang tree harmony to his song.

“Here we are.” Meera ran for a tunnel hidden in prickly bushes. It led to the transgressor huts. Awa limped behind her.

Rokiat smiled at Awa. “You sing like whispering leaves.” He turned to Meera. “You taste like sunshine.” He unlocked the tunnel gate then kissed Meera’s navel.

Meera pulled away. “We have to go.”

Rokiat groaned, wanting to lick Meera all over. He watched her with a greedy eye, then came to his senses and locked the passageway behind them.

“I started off pretending with Rokiat…” Meera shivered with lust as they picked their way through the dark.

“Do you love him?” Awa was jealous, even though she didn’t want Meera the way Rokiat did. A swarm of demon-flies flashed green and blue, lighting the way.

“Torch-bugs mean we deserve good luck.” Meera smiled, in a grand mood.

“Everyone deserves luck.” Awa sighed. “We call them demon-flies.”

Meera squeezed Awa. “Something is about to change. I feel it.”

The days before the festival, high priest Hezram freed transgressors at the ice god’s whim; acolytes also bled some transgressors to death to fortify Dream Gates for the next season. Acolytes joked that Hezram might spare Meera. She was ugly—brassy yellow hair and freckled skin, but perfect body—big belly, breasts, and thighs. Or Hezram might spare Awa because she was beautiful—sable skin and midnight eyes, but broken—a burnt arm and crippled leg. Sacrifices should be one thing or the other, not a mish mash. Too much hope made Awa stomach-sick. Not knowing was torture.