In the everyday, Arms and Azizi escape to the oasis garden, to the masquerade towers and treehouses with Lilot, Urzula, and their children. A few masters are with them. They tend to broken, battered bodies. Red-and yellow-robed men surround the oasis, yelling and clamoring for a fight, but a rain of arrows and a blast of sparks prevents them from advancing. Silver-mesh conjure shimmers in the everyday and in Jumbajabbaland, ready to be Hezram’s Nightmare or Awa’s Dream. Kenu holds the Gates open to spells and haints, and peers down a cascade of stars to a crossroads. Awa’s father lies dead at Kenu’s feet, acolyte arrows in his chest. Bal balances on a rope bridge above Mango, singing many voices and playing Lahesh crossover rhythms into the opening. Boat people in Jumbajabbaland echo vie.

“Burn the trees,” Hezram yells. “Why waste blades? Fire and smoke will do the job.”

Iyalawo Tembe of Ice Mountain blocks him. “No fire.” She is a chill wind surrounding him. “These trees are sacred. I know their songs.”

“Get out of my way, woman.” Hezram looms over her.

“Save the day and you will have a seat at the table,” Tembe declares. “Burn the trees and it will be like Holy City all over again. We do not destroy the world to save it.”

“I’m winning.” Hezram holds a sword to her neck.

“Then why fight me?” Tembe shatters the sword with a cold touch. “Most of your men are dead or they’ve come back to themselves and deserted you. Perhaps you’ll be emperor of nothing. Or perhaps you’ll die a traitor.”

Hezram scans the battleground. Many bodies nourish the dirt. “They betrayed me.”

“Tell the story you want and fight again tomorrow.” Tembe leans close. “Isn’t that what we’ve always done? We can’t hand the world over to transgressors.”

Hezram clutches her waist. “You could find the light bridge, the crossroads. Take me there.”

“No. Smokeland is a realm of possibilities but also maybe-nots. I won’t risk losing you, losing everything.” She pulls away from him.

“You betray me too?” Yellow and red-robed acolytes gather around Hezram.

Talking drummers surround Tembe. “Today I go where the water runs. To survive. Show me you’re the man I love.”

“I’ll find Awa.” Hezram leaves his breath body and passes through the borderland. He wanders leagues and leagues of wasteland. Snowstorms dull his senses, chill his mind. He leaves a trail for Soot to follow but the Master of Illusion finds no trace of Awa or Djola.

At the crossroads of all the regions where star bridges lead in a thousand thousand directions, Awa and Djola rest. A moon mask is plastered against Awa’s sweaty cheeks. Djola’s cape snaps in a fierce wind. A snowstorm approaches—Samina. She passes through Awa, then Djola. They shiver and shudder. Samina’s form solidifies with the touch of spirit she has stolen from them.