Awa danced to Djola. “Few of us can be heroes. I thought once of killing Hezram, but realized it would do no good. So I didn’t fight at all. I hoped to live in his shadows. But he bleeds the shadows.” She raced by Bal and paused at Kyrie. “I’d rather not fight. I’d rather ride up into Eidhou Mountain and make noisy love in a goat-hair tent. Why save a corrupt empire?” Zamanzi and Anawanama clowns snapped their fingers and joined her dance. “We all do void-spells.” Awa sighed. “Not just Hezram or Djola or whoever you’d like to accuse instead of yourselves. We’re happy to buy slaves and cheap goods from pirates, blame vesons for our greed, or blame barbarians and northlanders when we eat our children. We do this. We need to write a new story.”

Awa pulled the moon mask from the conjure bag, put it on, and sang more than spoke. “We brought the mountain down—we farmers, pirates, Elders, miners, masters, witch women, northlanders, ice hounds, tree-oil merchants, we good citizens and transgressors hacking the roots.” She gripped Meera’s hand. “For now and tomorrow, I dance a moon masquerade and sacrifice the old light to make a new story.”

Grain and Tembe’s women played talking drums with Bal. Rebels and carnival clowns dropped on cloud-silk ropes from the trees, tumbling and juggling. Queen Urzula, Lilot, and the kitchen crew donned moon masks and danced with Awa—an Anawanama masquerade for the Festival of Memories.

Meera shouted, “We brought Ice Mountain down. Awa’s gates would hold back the storm and give us a respite, would give us time to conjure a new path.”

“No transgressor huts, no tree apocalypse. What is the Council vote?” Djola leapt onto the flying-jackal table. Bal halted the beats. Quiet fell like a curtain. Soot crouched and bared his fangs, ready for attack. Djola marched around the table, pounding the torch cane. Mango flapped her ears behind him and threw up dirt. “Awa’s or Hezram’s gates? Nightmares or a real chance to dream?”

Ernold, Money, and Water voted for Hezram. They looked ready to murder Boto as he sided with Grain, Arms, Kyrie, and Djola.

“No need for me to break a tie.” Azizi whistled at Awa.

Djola raised his cane and chanted Abelzowadyo on the wind. This word echoed from the river across the city to the sea. He jumped down and backed away from the table.

Kyrie gripped Awa. “Crossing over, do you choose Abelzowadyo?”

“Yes,” Awa said.

“Then Basawili. This is not your last breath. We will whisper your story into tomorrow.” She pressed a vial into Awa’s hand.

“The same Lahesh poison Samina drank—cathedral seed and cloud-silk?” Awa trembled.

“Not always poison, a conjurer drug, to help you transform.”

“Will I be a snow squall or an avalanche with stone teeth?”