Someone muttered transgressor whore, and Awa wished she’d covered bare skin. Open wounds had scabbed over, yet the scars were obvious transgressor marks. No way to conceal a twisted leg or a mangled arm. She and Meera were too thin. At least Meera had ample breasts and hips, although freckles marred her face, shoulders, and bosom. And why was Kenu still muttering at her?

Awa patted the Aido headdress Bal had fashioned for her. The pattern was a hundred different maps of the same territory: All memory is illusion. Wise people craft truth from their illusions. Awa shook tension from her limbs. Last thoughts should not be wasted on worrying about a traitor family or how she and Meera looked to masters, high priests, and good citizens. What mattered was the gate-spell. Bal would play Yari’s talking drum and sing. Awa would lose herself in the music and find a new story. Abelzowadyo. This was her crossover ceremony.

“You start,” Meera whispered in her ears again.

Awa bowed to Azizi, then bowed in a circle to everyone. “Greetings, we are—”

“Abominations,” Hezram roared. Players straddled djembe drums bigger than Awa and beat anxious strokes that drowned out her protests. Squawking crows cut through the music. Hezram blew flames in the air, scattering the crows. “Filthy scavengers.” Many applauded his carnival trick. Awa’s heart ached as birds on fire plummeted toward the ground, and she didn’t even like crows.

“You’re the horror,” Meera shouted at Hezram.

“You address Council, not the witchdoctor of dreams.” High priest Ernold chastised her, his red robes billowing. “Tell your tale. You waste our patience.”

Awa stammered as a crow with smoking wings flopped on the ground. Kyrie pulled fire from the bird, and threw the flames over Hezram’s head. Djola wrapped the chittering creature in cloud-silk and tucked it in his cloak. Awa nodded gratitude. Truth be told, she loved the crows. Bal played Yari’s doubled-headed drum. Awa’s feet took up the slow, steady rhythm. Hips swung this way and that to hit upbeats. She used Urzula’s spark torch to accent tricky phrases.

“We thank you, Emperor Azizi, for your patience, your time.” Meera spoke in a strong voice for them both. She talked over masters interrupting her again and again. Bolstered by Bal’s beats and Awa’s dance, Meera detailed the horrors of transgressor huts and Nightmare Gates. Azizi and many others hung on her words, even Tembe. Meera pointed at Jod and his gang near the front of the audience. She described torture, rape, and murder. The gang smirked and made threatening gestures.

“Awa stomped me.” Jod lifted up a splinted leg. “Broke my leg, and that other piece of slag sliced me.” He held up a bandaged arm.

“Too bad it wasn’t your neck.” Meera told of cells in the citadel where prisoners were tortured and bled. “Right now, for Hezram’s and Ernold’s spells.”