A large cargo boat pulled in. Zamanzi and Anawanama clans disembarked. Thrilled to be in the capital, they donned animal masks and outlaw armor. Two more ships arrived. Tomorrow, on the final day of the Eishne Festival of Memories, Azizi would appoint a new five-year Council. He promised bold changes. Folks from everywhere with tales to tell and hopes to share poured into the capital—refugees, adventurers, scoundrels, and rebels, all taking advantage of open gates. As they disembarked, brave eyes met Awa’s gaze. She forced a smile. Inside Djola’s Dream Gates, the People, green lands, and Weeds and Wild Things would have time to write a different story. A few moments at least. No reason to doubt this.

Bal materialized from shadows and rode close. City buildings loomed behind vie, gloomy in the night. Each dark window was a promise not kept, an opening into the void, a war about to be waged. Bal touched Awa’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”

“Everything,” Awa whispered. “Nothing.”

Bal opened vie’s mouth, then closed it tight.

“Look at that.” Meera almost squealed.

Sea sparkle swarmed below the docks. Tiny creatures turned midnight water iridescent green and purple—a miracle. Farther out, dark waves reflected moonlight. Awa had placed Lahesh crystals along the gates, for Djola’s conjure and to honor Yari. She threw one into the sea-sparkle water for Isra.

“Yari used to sing an ode about a black sea with a shiny edge.” Bal hummed, searching for a tune. “Do you remember?”

Awa had learned it without meaning to and sang it now:

When our battles are won

Who will map endless bloodstains?

When our brief days are done

What little shadow remains?

When the last wave is come

Who sings the final refrains?

Silver light creasing a black sea

That is how to remember me

“Zamanzi thugs and Anawanama whores! Savage scum!” Shouting curses, a dozen acolytes in Hezram-yellow and Ernold-red ran toward a boat arriving at the farthest dock. Froth seeped from their noses and hearts beat out of rhythm.

Sand-colored travelers ambled down the gangway. Short, squat folks in pirate pants and Lahesh flame-cloth robes carried spark torches and small catapult weapons. Bushy hair was streaked bronze or braided in swirls. The women had stars tattooed in half circles around their eyes—pirates, not northlanders. Isolationist floating-city folks had ventured off their island for the Eishne Festival. Acolytes hurled rocks and cursed foreign demons come to destroy the Empire. The pirates threw sparks at the acolytes’ feet. Fannie reared. Bibi snorted and kicked too. Acolytes got tripped up by the horses. “Tschupatzi! Queen Urzula has invited us.” The pirates displayed torch weapons.