Azizi groaned. “I’d hoped for—” He made a vague gesture.

“Miracles?” Djola said. “Miracles are hard work.”

“Something faster”—Azizi had made speed a virtue in his Empire—“and not so complicated.” He preferred elegant, simple solutions. “You’d have us live like Green Elders.” Other masters grumbled agreement. “Who can trust bloodthirsty Zamanzi or corrupt barbarians to lay down weapons and share seeds and wisdom?”

Djola was ready for this argument. He circled the stone-wood table, shaking the sweetgrass basket of bones. “We give Anawanama, Zamanzi, and other tribes amnesty, a chance to catch their breath and raise their children, not bury them. You heard Chief Nuar. Void-winds blow over the northland. We offer them and southern barbarians a seat at Council, decent land to farm instead of storehouses to raid. No war on any border.” He had them all nodding till high priest Ernold kissed his teeth, disgusted.

“More wise women on Council?” he said. “Kyrie isn’t enough for you?”

“We aren’t defeated,” Water shouted. “Why surrender to women and savages?”

Books and Bones handed the scrolls to Djola. “Freak storms are on the rise. Dream Gate conjure could protect us tomorrow. High priest Hezram’s offer is generous.”

“Djola expects us to give away tomorrow without a fight.” Ernold spat in the fireplace. “Hezram is Empire through and through.”

“You’d trust a man who bleeds his own people?” Djola shouldn’t have been shocked at their stupidity, but he was. “Hezram won’t prevent freak storms and more ghost villages.” He glanced up at the sky windows, the only windows in the Council chamber, dark eyes, blind eyes. No other master had gone out and experienced the poison storm. They felt safe behind citadel walls. “We must all dance to a new beat, dispel the void clinging to us.”

“True.” Azizi stuttered. “But the greatest empire—” As he got tangled in a coughing fit, Water chanted about the glorious Arkhysian Empire. Ernold and Money joined him. Books and Bones pounded rhythmic support. Arms pressed thin lips tight.

Water turned on Grain. “Where do you stand?”

“With the greatest empire,” Grain replied. What else could a northlander say?

Grain stood up from the stone-wood table as sour faces turned murderous. Money, Water, and Ernold shouted lies about northlanders, transgressors, and vesons. They lambasted pirates, barbarians, and power-mad women then spooked themselves into turning down prosperity for Holy City illusions. When the sun finally made it over the foothills and shone through the sky windows, high priest Ernold accused Kyrie of being a traitor witch from the floating cities who wanted to destroy history’s greatest empire. Kyrie, whose weapon-conjure turned back pirate ships and saved Azizi’s fleet; Kyrie, who’d given her sister to Djola and arranged the imperial wedding with Pirate Queen Urzula.