“I speak truth. Listen.” Hezram stole Awa’s time to talk. He blamed the ills of the world on barbarians ravaging the Empire; on northlanders and Green Elders worshipping rocks; on vesons and transgressors desecrating sacred ground and inviting the void to the everyday. He said nothing of everyone plundering land and sea, but vowed to turn tainted transgressor-blood into miracles. Lies people wanted to believe. Clapping and finger snapping galvanized him. He waved a Lahesh scroll at jeers from the back of the audience. “I deserve a seat at the table.”

He pledged to sweep the Empire clean and bring back rain, beauty, and power. He promised the prosperity of old and also of never before. His acolytes perverted an Anawanama storm dance. No lightning graced their feet; no clouds rode their breath. They were wild eyes and a frenzy of limbs. Drunk on void-smoke, their heart rhythms were too similar. Foam dribbled from noses and ears. Hezram joined the dance and stomped until his drummers and dancers collapsed. He leapt over twitching bodies to Djola. “Poison master, you destroyed Holy City, Ice Mountain, and the Amethyst River.”

Accusations and threats flew as masters insisted Hezram or Djola was to blame. Queen Urzula blasted sparks over Council heads. Everyone froze. “Let the witnesses finish,” she said.

“Yes,” Azizi said. “I want to hear what Awa has to say.”

Meera squeezed her. “I’m for you and you’re for everybody.”

“Even for the animal-people?” Hezram sneered.

Lilot aimed a spark torch at Hezram’s head. “Not another interruption.”

Bal played a harvest rhythm. Awa walked with Soot, past scowling faces. She soaked up moonlight, let mountain chill fill her, and then turned to the crowd. “I’m one of you. Every year, right outside Holy City, farmers invited the desert to encroach on their lands. I know. Grandfather and Father did this. I am you.”

She stepped in front of Kenu. “People sold neighbors, their daughters, and even sons to whoever could pay, just to save their farms another day. I was sold. Mother managed to get me to an enclave, thinking I was safe, but the Green Elders roamed the fringes, running and hiding and thinking they were free, but we were not free.”

She moved on to the pirates. “Nowhere to run from ourselves. No paradise island or miracle mountain. People slaughter their herds, kill the old trees, and fish the Golden Gulf dry. More and more transgressors bleed and die in the huts, but nothing gets better. I was bled and broken, like the trees.”

She approached Grain. “After the bloodletting, we had more suffering, more desert. Hezram lies. You know it. You just hope to sneak by. I know. I did this too, hoping not to be the one Hezram bled to death.”

Djola tapped his cane to Bal’s beats. They both sang in many voices. Soot threw back his head and howled.