A cool draft trails their procession into the mine, pressing at their backs as if to urge them forward. Lamp needs little encouragement to create more distance between himself and Trembleheel. For as long as the stolen grafts remain in their possession, he’ll feel more comfortable amidst Blackwing’s other employees than the general public.
Even if some subordinates occasionally spill organizational secrets to the nearest basileus, Lamp can’t imagine anyone under contract attempting to directly interfere. Also, considering that no individual between their current position and the end of the world could challenge Blackwing or Candlewire in a contest of magic, it feels unlikely that anyone ahead of them will get too uppity, even in groups.
Lamp doesn’t feel thrilled to have taken the side of a hypothetically oppressive authority, but their shared affiliation does calm his nerves.
The group picks up two late additions when they reach the chamber where Blackwing’s off-duty way-lighters await their next assignments. As the first of them steps out and activates her graft, Lamp recognizes her as the same light-binder who led his first passage through this tunnel a week and a half ago. The woman must be visiting her sister again.
A second way-lighter trails into the hall behind the first but leaves his graft dark. Lamp doesn’t bother asking why that one’s tagging along. Maybe Blackwing wanted a spare or plans to split the group at some point.
Guided by the familiar stranger’s red graft light, they march down the long expanse of stone in a state close to silence. Their feet make plenty of noise, of course, and Lamp occasionally hears distant evidence of late-night mining bouncing down the walls of a side branch, but no one speaks. Walking with the solemnity of a funeral procession, they advance all the way to Blackwing’s lift platforms before another word is spoken.
Lamp, Candlewire, and Ashti ride down with the first assemblage of grafts before Blackwing leaves them at the bottom while he returns above for his remaining cargo. While they wait, the overseer directs her porters to set the tunnel’s rolling cart aboard its tracks, then to load their lashed collection of boxes on top. From the amount of space that first deposit occupies, Lamp doubts any room will remain for human passengers once all three have arrived. That’s just as well.
To his mild surprise, their first group of porters takes the next lift up, returning to the upper level and making space for the next crew. The second group follows suit, as does the third and final contingent. Lamp presumes they’ll all head back to town now with the aid of their spare way-lighter.
Without those dozen extra bodies, the tunnel feels significantly less cramped in both a physical and conversational sense. Lamp isn’t the only one to notice; once the elevating contraption stills and they receive signal flashes from above confirming that the final group exited their platform safely, Candlewire immediately makes a quip by asking if anyone else feels cold.
Blackwing, preoccupied with securing Rosehalf’s elephant tusk on top of the other cargo, still answers her question with dry and obviously fake laughter. Once Trembleheel’s treasure is safely nestled aboard the heavily laden cart, the merchant positions himself slightly to its side, presses his graft arm against its back, and begins pushing the machine forward at a sedate pace. His way-lighter quickly assumes the group’s second position, shining her red glow over the merchant’s shoulder to illuminate the empty rock ahead of them. Lamp and the others trail last.
As they walk, Lamp’s eyes drift to the wicker-wrapped frame and thick cloth pile stacked atop the pinnacle of Blackwing’s hill of crates. Now that they have a degree of privacy again, his curiosity at last gets the better of him, and he finally asks Blackwing a burning question that had occurred to him some time ago.
“Can you really lift all this?” Lamp inquires dubiously. “It’s a lot of weight.”
“I can.” The merchant answers in an assured tone. “With the airboat and Candlewire’s assistance.”
“My assistance?” His partner haughtily interjects. “You assist me, long-arm.”
“Of course, Wire. I misspoke.” The merchant replies in perfect deadpan. “Forgive me.”
“Yeah, sure. You’re forgiven.” She grins at the back of his head. “Just keep it straight next time.”
After waiting a moment to be sure their banter has concluded, Lamp glances at the deflated sack of canvas with new respect and asks. “So hot air generates that much force, does it?”
“Not quite.” The merchant shakes his head. “The envelope might lift two or three of us on its own, but not all four plus cargo. This system only works because it offers our magic a firm grip.”
“I see.” Lamp mutters, though he really doesn’t.
Before the scholar can articulate that he still hasn’t understood, Candlewire rejoins the conversation. “What Wing means to say is that- at least for our world-tile’s native magic- augmentation is always cheaper than genesis. That’s because pulling along with nature costs far less than pulling against it. So, when you want to go up, you find or create a natural force that independently pushes you in your desired direction, then you strengthen it.
“Here’s our process.” She lifts a hand and raises three fingers one by one. “First, I make a bunch of air hot, and my hot air rises. Second, the canvas blocks that rising air, so it forces the assembly upwards. Third, our weight-binder extraordinaire touches that object, which is already trying to go up, and he motivates it to try a lot harder. At the same time, he gobbles up the force yanking him back down and burns it as fuel.”
Candlewire lowers her arm and shrugs. “For today’s purposes, the resulting effect may or may not actually be strong enough to lift all of this mass off the ground. We never tried hauling anything nearly as heavy before we stopped prototyping. Frankly, I’m not really sure this’ll work.”
Blackwing looks back and smiles thinly. “We can lift it.”
“Ever the optimist.” She winks at the man. “You know, sometimes I wonder if I’m the only blind one.”
He makes a sound that might be a grunt or a laugh, then shakes his head. “I speak from experience. There’s less ‘resistance’ outside the caldera. We can push further before nature rebels.”
“Really? I didn’t notice any difference the last time I went out, but I suppose we never strained ourselves.” She stares ahead at nothing for a moment before shrugging and turning her face back towards Lamp. “Anyway, I can manage something similar to his trick by augmenting sunlight or the heat from an existing fire. You might learn to do something similar eventually. Probably not, if I’m being honest. But you might! There’s hope!”
Lamp nods and smiles flatly, choosing not to pursue the topic further. After he catches Ashti up to speed, however, she poses a follow-up question of her own.
“You mentioned amplifying heat from natural sources, but could your magic function in the opposite direction as well? Can a graft like yours increase the power of an existing source of cold?”
“I suppose it could, but there wouldn’t be much point.” Candlewire says with a shake of her head. “Amplification might be easier than genesis, but consumption’s even more efficient. Think of grafts as hungry mouths; they chew up and swallow aspects of the world faster than they can spit anything back out. The quickest way to intensify frigid conditions is to wring out whatever heat’s left in that environment and claim it for myself.
“For instance, when two heat-binders fight without weapons, we don’t waste time trying to burn each other. Our objective is to steal the enemy’s warmth before they take all of ours. The loser of that duel isn’t immolated; they freeze to death… Sorry if that’s overly morbid. It was just the first example that came to mind.”
“Ah.” Ashti falls quiet for a long pause, then asks in a small voice. “Have you killed someone in that manner before?”
The overseer smiles sadly and nods. “Yes. When I had to.”
“How common is the need?”
“Very infrequent, at least for me. Wing has it a little tougher. He’s the one who needs to deal with pirates and similar threats whenever our crews can’t handle them alone. We could always hire mercenaries instead, but it helps both our reputation and overhead for the boss to do our dirty work himself.
“In any case, most ordinary people throughout the caldera don’t have any stories about the enemies they’ve slain. That grisly work usually falls to professionals.” She waves a hand at Lamp. “Take him. I doubt he’s ever ended any lives. Right, Hand?”
The scholar nods in confirmation. “I’ve seen my share of corpses, but I didn’t make them.”
“There you have it. The need is only common for an unlucky few.”
Ashti thanks them, then takes a minute to process everything she’s heard. Her expression shows focus and perturbation as their party ambles down the slanted tunnel toward an exit far out of sight. Eventually, she poses another question.
“How…” She clears her throat. “If I may ask, how does war function for your people? I would like to know what exactly happened on the night you, Lord Blackwing, and Lady Clearheart went off together.”
Candlewire sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t shy away from the subject. “Well, I missed most of the action myself. Wing could tell you specifics, but he usually doesn’t care to recount those sordid details, so I’ll fill you in on the general premise. To start with, our tools and methods haven’t changed all that much since the rupture.”
She smiles grimly. “Paraphrasing something Clearheart once said to me, it takes a lot of magic to kill a person faster than you could just stab ‘em, and you also need to get real close. Additionally, an army with standardized methods of killing can establish standard training regiments, so for the average trained soldier, fighting looks much the same today as it did three-hundred-plus years ago.
“That’s not to say grafts don’t have circumstantial applications in combat. Light-binders can shift the course of a night raid by flash-blinding their enemies, heat-binders can cauterize their allies’ wounds or cure heatstroke, and weight-binders can carry supplies into the fight or take the wounded away from it. Magic is always present on the battlefield, but for the guys on the front line, it isn’t always worth the split-attention it requires.
“The big exceptions are momentum and weight, since they augment the forces everyone’s already playing with. Between the two, momentum is generally the more lethal category in a straight duel. People recognized as ‘great warriors’ generally have that type.”
Nodding with wide eyes, Ashti reflects. “Anyone who can steal the strength from his enemy’s blade must be close to invulnerable.”
“You’d think so.” Candlewire smiles. “The question is whether he can do it fast enough. For those of us with physical graft types, consumption can’t begin before contact. Mental grafts like yours have the advantage in range since your ‘contact’ starts with simple awareness.”
From ahead, Blackwing contributes. “It should be mentioned that very little pressure is required to open a vein. If the defender weakens a blow but fails to capture or counter its remaining energy, he’ll perish when it penetrates his skin. That said, momentum grafts still pose a significant threat when attacking, and their owners prove resistant to blunt force. They should not be underestimated.”
“Yep.” Candlewire agrees. “But also, it takes immense focus to simultaneously consume and release large volumes of energy- way more focus than anyone can feasibly maintain in the midst of a skirmish. So, if you flank a momentum-binder who’s already trying to hit a different target, there’s not much they’ll be able to do about you when you strike from the side or behind. So I’m told, at least. I don’t get involved in that type of battle myself. Couldn’t tell my friends from foes.”
Before Ashti can vocalize a follow-up question, Blackwing interjects with another comment. “As an addendum to my earlier point: If your opponent possesses prowess equal to a basileus, you must assume they can absorb the full force of any blow dealt by human hands. Every strike against them merely inflates their power.”
“Well, yeah.” The overseer mumbles. “That’s a different subject.”
The outlander glances between the two of them inquisitively before asking. “Then how does one contend with such opponents?”
This is a question to which Lamp knows the answer, so he shares it. “Historically speaking, you use poison, murder them in their sleep, or lure their ship far from land before breaking the hulls of both vessels so everyone drowns.”
After he translates his answer for the others, Candlewire chuckles darkly. “Oh, you don’t need to do all that. They’ll still burn, and if your magic can’t punch through theirs, just start a fire around them. Let its smoke and flames do the work.”
Blackwing nods in support, adding. “Powerful momentum-binders can also be suffocated beneath a stationary weight. No one is invulnerable to every vector of attack.”
His words hang in the air without comment for several seconds before Candlewire breaks the silence.
“Just a few more things I wanted to note regarding your original question.” She says while looking back to Ashti. “Some people get more utility out of their graft’s physical composition than its magic. I’m always wearing soft armor and basically can’t be cut, for instance. Or take Hand.” She gestures toward the scholar’s eponymous grafts. “I mean, look at those things. He could probably crack skulls with a strong punch, and just imagine trying to pry those smooth, hard fingers off your neck if he started choking you…”
The copper woman’s voice trails off, and her gaze lingers on Lamp’s hands for an uncomfortably long pause before she presses on. “Anyway, the last thing I wanted to say is that most people can’t drain energy fast enough or stockpile enough of it in advance to glean any sustained advantage during combat. Ordinary civilians might have sufficient power stored up to settle a bar brawl or scare off thugs, but their grafts lack the stamina and agility required for real, extended battles. The energy cost of rapidly killing or disabling a person through magic alone is simply too high.
“Because of that factor and everything else we’ve already said, the humble spear still reigns supreme as king of war.” She shrugs. “So there’s the answer to your original question. Clearheart’s raid looked like a bunch of men, some of whom were armored, running around in the dark and stabbing each other with long, sharp sticks. Same as our ancestors did it.”
“I see.” The outlander absorbs the information with a contemplative expression.
Whatever Ashti thinks of the matter, she offers no further commentary or questions, and the group at last falls quiet. In the ensuing pause, only the cart’s trundling wheels and the rasp of their sandals against the stone fill the tunnel’s vast silence. After perhaps a minute of wordless walking, Blackwing sparks the next discussion.
“What of your homeland?” He calmly asks. “Your people have never warred among themselves, I understand, but individual conflicts must still arise. How does combat play out between two members of the Select?”
“I fear your question has no answer.” Ashti replies with a pensive frown. “Serious disputes are either brought before a family head or else escalated to the king. Honor duels, when they occur, almost always forbid the use of magic in favor of swordsmanship. The only modern context in which soulmasks are employed at full potential against an equal foe is the subjugation of false icons.”
Lamp- privy to information he never passed along to his employer- interjects. “Your first few years after the rupture saw more violence, didn’t they? From the story you shared last night about your kingdom’s founding, it sounded as though bloodshed became relatively common during the window before Judgement’s return.”
“I would not say ‘common.’” The handmaiden answers primly. “Though I will admit your point’s validity. However, the assassins of that period hoped to evade detection, and none of them sought fair contests; the scoundrels preferred to target their rivals’ children rather than attack their rivals directly. Also, the Select of that time were incredibly new to magic and feared transforming into mindless monsters every time they used it. Therefore, even if records of their infrequent battles survived, those accounts would not fully represent what my people can accomplish now.”
She looks ahead toward the merchant. “I believe I can best answer Lord Blackwing’s question by describing our conflicts against false icons. On that matter, I have encountered a primary source.
“My father’s younger brother is one of our kingdom’s only two living ‘icon tamers.’ He was tasked with subduing one of them while I was a young girl still living with my parents in Nagharehdad. I remember pleading to go along with him on that mission, but my mother forbade it.”
The outlander smiles nostalgically. “When my uncle returned, victorious, I begged him to tell me everything that had transpired. He wove for me a lurid tale of immense and unpredictable dangers which he overcame through courage, alacrity, and skill. I believed him unquestioningly at the time, though I later came to suspect that he exaggerated his exploits while regaling an expectant child. Still, I can repeat for you what I remember hearing from him, though I will trim away his embellishments.”
She clears her throat. “Soulmasks summon creatures, substances, or objects under their owners’ command; my uncle’s mask conjures mists. He claimed that in his fight against the icon, he first blinded it with fog and lured it over the edge of a gorge. Although its body was not injured by the fall, he managed to confuse the creature and turn it around each time it moved closer to the exit.
“When it tried to climb, he made the walls too slick for purchase. When it lashed out with magic of its own, he was never where it expected to find him. Slowly, over the course of an hour, he poured more vapor into the craig, building moisture until it condensed and pooled. When the water reached his shins, he commanded it to gather at the icon’s feet and swept its great and twisted frame from the ground.
“Once the monster was within his hold, he formed a wave beneath their bodies and carried both of them beyond the gorge and across the desert under a tide of roiling clouds. He foiled his opponent’s constant attempts at escape and brought it to the prison of immortals, where he delivered it before the warden’s lake. Then Grief, the true icon which guards that place, emerged from the waters to embrace its malformed cousin and pull it below.”
Ashti meet’s Blackwing’s eyes and smiles awkwardly. “So ended Uncle Gardun’s heroic tale. Though I lack his flare for storytelling, I hope my version at least satisfied your curiosity.”
“Thank you.” The merchant nods. “It did resolve some questions for me, but I have one remaining. I know from observation that your soulmasks possess another property: an ability to sculpt the thoughts of those around you. Surely that magic would find applications in combat.”
“Ah.” the girl looks away with a troubled expression. “Overflow only influences the maskless. No thinking creature in my world with a command of its own magic is susceptible.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Interesting. How strongly do you think it would affect grafted individuals?”
“I do not know, and I can scarcely guess.” She shakes her head. “However, I would be surprised if you, Lord Blackwing, were fully vulnerable; likewise if Lamp was fully immune. Between those points, I do not know what to expect.”
“Another mystery for us to answer.” He mutters. “So be it.”
The group falls into silence once again, but the pause barely settles before Candlewire breaks it by proposing a cheerier subject.
“You should give Wing an actual account of your princess’s artwork.” She suggests to Ashti via Lamp. “I made a game of it last time, but the actual stories were quite fascinating. I’m sure he’d enjoy hearing them.”
The handmaiden happily agrees, as does the merchant, so her descriptive tour begins anew. The four of them while the rest of their journey through the tunnel listening as Ashti describes her partner’s body of work. This time, she emphasizes the art that passed before Blackwing’s eyes in his exchanges with Lady Jaleh. The merchant remembers many of those items, and even claims to display his most recent acquisition inside his office in Wall Town, a crucial detail which Ashti promises to relay back to the artist.
In the midst of this conversation, the tunnel’s dark exit arrives rather suddenly. No sunlight or attendant way-lighters announce the coming terminus; it simply arrives.
As they pull to a stop, Blackwing dismisses the red light-binder who guided them through the mountain. The starlight shining down from the cloudless heavens apparently provides sufficient illumination for his work. After murmuring a subdued farewell, the woman deactivates her graft, departs, and vanishes into the night.
After she leaves, Blackwing labors alone to unload and arrange his cargo. He first centers the airboat within his fortress’s empty courtyard before dragging a thickly woven net out from one of the few containers not holding grafts. All remaining boxes and items then transfer inside the net before he cinches it closed and anchors it to each corner of the platform.
Once the merchant completes his individual work, Candlewire moves forward to join him. He holds the airboat’s canvas bladder above her head while she begins emitting heat. The task apparently doesn’t require her full attention, as she manages to chat about the weather and other inconsequential subjects as they watch the bag slowly fill.
Blackwing waits until the envelope can hold itself upright without his assistance before ordering his passengers onboard. As they step onto the platform, he gives them orders to keep verbal communication to a minimum once they’re up in the air. Even if no one can make out their words, any noise at all could betray their position to a sound-binder scout.
Lamp and Ashti accept the restriction as a learning exercise and agree to converse solely via hand signs once the boat lifts from the ground. Blackwing nods his approval before asking whether they have any final questions or concerns. They don’t, so the merchant asks them not to cause any disturbances before seating himself across from Candlewire.
Blackwing lays his graft arm over his lap, and his partner places both her hands atop it. Both of them close their eyes and adopt expressions of calm focus. Then the world twists.
Lamp feels the change at a level beyond physical sensation, recognizing it within his soul as much as with his body. Norms, instincts, and expectations morph as natural law restructures across a wide area around them. Lamp intuitively knows that the airboat, its cargo, and its passengers now exist within a visualization so vivid and intense that the world accepts it as real.
Their platform will rise, as sure as rain falls and fire burns. Weight is irrelevant; material strength couldn’t matter less. The possibility of failure exists exclusively outside this pocket of conjoined will. Only one outcome remains feasible within it. The strange boat can do nothing but fly.
And so it happens.
They lift gracefully from the ground, rising high enough to clear the walls before an artificial wind builds around them. The breeze travels across their platform, blowing toward the mountainside, yet somehow they ride it forward. Lamp chews on that puzzle for a short span before deciding he probably doesn’t have enough context to figure it out. Maybe it’s something to do with pressure.
As the boat drifts outward into the open sky, Wing and Wire remain in constant contact and seldom speak. The latter leaves her eyes closed while the former occasionally opens his own to check their heading against the stars. Lamp tries to remain unobtrusive while the two of them work, even going so far as to avoid thinking about falling for fear that his imagination might somehow impair the miracle around him.
After a time, he notices Ashti glancing at him with a curious expression. Unwilling to speak and unable to articulate his thoughts via gesture, he simply nods to her. She nods back, though he’s not sure whether they managed to establish any sort of understanding. A breath later, she attempts a less oblique communication method.
“Name?” She signs before pointing to the seated partners. “Name for this action?”
Lamp nods. “Two words. First is… Not mind, not body. Third thing.”
“Ah. Soul. This sign. Soul.”
“Thank you. Second word is… like light… quick… big light.”
She shows him an example, which he accepts.
“Soul flare.” He answers her question. “Name is.”
“Thank you.” She smiles. “Have you seen it before?”
“Yes. I did action. Every… What sign for small person? No, not short. Small like…”
“Child.” She shows him.
“Every child does one time. First time magic happens. Not again for me. I… I know before? Thank you. I remember. Was quick. Powerful. Felt holy. Like this.” He bobs his head toward the seated couple. “Difference is between them and us. They feel deep magic. Always.”
Ashti nods, then begins a sequence of more complex hand signs, most of which Lamp manages to identify with help from context and facial expressions. His interlocutor obligingly mouths the words she knows he hasn’t learned.
“In my world-tile, we call it ‘authority.’ The ability to manifest intention is what makes those two part of the Select. Everyone with a soulmask can do something like it, but for my people, it becomes a balancing act. Lean too far, and you transform. People with grafts have a different limitation, one resulting from the need to capture and store your power before it can be used. Your magic is safer but less free.”
“Lean too far…” Lamp repeats Ashti’s gestures, then ponders her words while letting his mind brush against the strange field around them. After a moment, he signs. “Becoming icon… means falling inside dream?”
“In a way.” She tilts her chin slightly while considering her answer. “It means losing yourself in the flat image of your soul. The painting on the soulmask- the little world it contains- bleeds into your mind each time you pull from it. If too much of that world pours inside you at once, it overwhelms and supplants your identity.”
“Can be fixed?” The scholar asks tentatively, certain he already knows the answer. “Undone?”
The outlander sadly shakes her head. “No. Even Judgment failed. Our first king tried to change his daughter back, but the transformation is permanent. Each time an icon enters being, a person exits.”
Lamp nods and drops his hands back into his lap. Ashti does the same, and they sit beside each other quietly for a time. Turning their eyes to the world beyond their wicker platform, they watch as the stars shimmer far above and the dark, still land trails behind them far below.
Two hours pass while they continue drifting down the mountainside. Occasionally, Blackwing and Candlewire relax the dream bubble while maintaining the normal effects of their grafts. The airboat begins slowly falling each time their grip on reality slackens, but the mountain’s descending slope yields ample open air into which they can safely drop.
Candlewire utilizes these pauses to recharge her graft, sticking an arm over the edge to drain heat from the passing air. Frost slowly crystalizes on her metal skin, and thin wisps of fog trail behind them in the arid sky. She offers her passengers reassuring smiles whenever she glances back at them, and they return genial waves. No words are exchanged.
Somewhere around Lamp’s estimation of midnight, their airboat reaches the first canyon walls. It takes a few minutes for him to pick out their darker shadows from the gloom below, but he excitedly points them out to his companion once he notices. She carefully glances over the side to check for herself before retreating closer to the platform’s center.
As she settles back in place, a much belated question occurs to Lamp. He waves for her attention before posing it.
“How you feeling?” The scholar gestures at the open air around them. “Big sky is. Afraid?”
Ashti shakes her head, pauses, then nods with a slight smile. “I have mostly grown accustomed to it; I know that if your sky wished to kill me, it would have done so already. That said, our present mode of transit poses its own set of worries. I am trying not to think about them.”
“Me also. Will stop talking.”
“Thank you.” She grins.
Perhaps an hour later, the airboat begins falling at a faster pace. Blackwing breaks his own rule to quietly explain that he and Candlewire need rest. The merchant had wanted to push all the way to Wall Town before sunrise, but the pair’s constant use of magic has left their minds exhausted, and they no longer have the stamina to hold nature at bay. If they kept going beyond this point, they would either lose speed or risk crashing.
Bowing to necessity, the voyagers come to a soft landing atop one of the canyon walls. Blackwing suggests repelling down into the crags to better disguise their presence, but Candlewire vetoes him.
“Do you really want to fly this thing in those confines?” She whispers while pointing down into the gorge. “And don’t say you’ll haul it back out on your lonesome. That would require several lengthy trips. How much time would we lose?”
Her partner frowns and dodges the question. “If we stay on top, we may be seen.”
“Anyone who knows to look for us has probably found our base already. There are easier ways to locate it than following a dot through the sky.” She shakes her head.” We’re already sleeping on rocks. Don’t make this harder.”
He begrudgingly accepts her point and lets the matter drop. The group then prepares for bed, all of them electing to sleep atop the airboat’s wicker platform. With nothing to eat or drink, and no energy for conversation, they quickly organize their positions and settle in.
Before falling asleep, Lamp maintains his streak of nightly prayers. Tonight, he doesn’t bother raising his arms into the proper pose, opting instead to murmur his praises upwards to the sky while lying on his back. Ashti combines her voice with his a moment later, having recognized the scripture he chose to recite.
A few seconds later, for the first time in their journey together, Blackwing joins in with a separate prayer in his native tongue. Candlewire adds no words of her own, but contributes a single, “Alethia,” when the others fall silent. Then they bid each other quiet, dreamless nights and fall asleep.
Morning arrives too quickly, and Blackwing has them up and ready before the sun fully rises above a hazy eastern horizon. They return to the air within minutes and reach their new cruising altitude while twilight still lingers at the far end of the sky. Lamp spends a fair chunk of time staring back at the broad mountain which wraps around his homeland; even at great distance, it still looks like a flat wall.
Today, Blackwing keeps them near enough to the canyon tops so he can navigate by their contours, following the familiar route he would ordinarily take by foot. With the ground much closer in Lamp’s view and the budding daylight revealing its details, the scholar can better appreciate just how quickly they’re moving. He might have preferred to retain his ignorance.
Still, he cracks a smile when Candlewire peers over the edge and mutters. “Take us closer. I can’t see anything.”
Blackwing gives her a flat look. She smiles sweetly. The airboat maintains its height.
Thankfully, nothing disturbs their passage that morning as they zip above the wrinkled stone. After taking only a single break near midday for Blackwing and Candlewire to reset their focus, they draw close to Wall Town in the early afternoon.
For safety’s sake, they elect not to descend directly into the gorge. Instead, they hover in place above the settlement while Lamp signals the miniscule town with flashes of light delivered in a pattern prescribed by his employer. To preserve discretion, Blackwing orders the scholar to drape his cloak over his graft so that his flares are masked from all directions but down.
Lamp isn’t confident the distant settlement will ever notice them, but after only his fourth attempt, an answering signal rises from below.
Blackwing nods after seeing it, then proclaims. “They’ll open the rear gates for us. We can move on.”
He and Candlewire waste no time before advancing over the final wall. Though Lamp remembers walking its full length on his last visit, and they’re traveling much faster now, it somehow still feels longer from above.
As they near the great wall’s precipice, the air shifts somehow. Lamp isn’t sure what exactly changed in the world, but every small noise begins to sound slightly wrong. Every color looks just a bit off. The most dramatic shift, however, only arrives when they cross beyond the cliff edge.
Daylight collapses into dusk in the blink of an eye. In fact, the change occurs precisely when Lamp first blinks. Between one glance and the next, the bright sky before them transforms into a hazy, omnidirectional sunset, though the sun itself maintains its position overhead.
Ashti gasps as she experiences the same phenomenon, though neither of the older adults make any noise of acknowledgement. Instead, Blackwing and Candlewire remain focused on their descent, slowly lowering the airboat from its great height to gently land at a safe remove from the wall.
With that accomplished, Blackwing detaches and opens the formerly dangling net and begins removing some of its contents. He explains that two thirds of the stolen grafts will remain behind on their current trip to save weight and to make room for provisions. They wouldn’t be able to carry everything on foot after crossing through the portal anyway.
Upon hearing that comment, Lamp remarks. “Could we not continue our journey by air on the other side? It occurs to me that if Candlewire came along with us, we could simply fly above both icons and float right to the peak of Clearheart’s sacred mountain. We’d also be able to convey nearly all of the grafts in a single visit.”
“No.” Blackwing shakes his head in refusal. “If we bring Wire, we also need to bring the spear. Doing that would ease one segment of our journey while risking the loss of our only key to either the gate itself or a foreign king.”
“True, but the segment in question might kill us both.” Lamp wryly notes.
The merchant returns his humor with a piercing stare. “I remain willing to face that risk, and I will go alone if I must. You are not required to join me.”
Lamp nearly steps back to distance himself from Blackwing’s sudden intensity. Raising his hands, he acquiesces. His employer’s gaze softens in response, and he adopts a gentler tone.
“How certain are you that none of their icons fly?” He asks as if posing a hypothetical.
“Some of them do, actually.”
“Then altitude guarantees nothing. We will chance what we can predict.”
Blackwing steps away, ending the conversation. He continues transferring items meant for storage out of the net and stacks them near the wide wooden doors that bar their entry into the wall. While he works, Lamp examines the gate itself, noting that its exterior surface lies flush with the stone and a complementary color stains its surface. He hadn’t been able to spot the entrance from above, and he doubts it would be easy to find at a distance from any angle.
Eventually, the hidden doors push open and a trio of workers step outside to assist their employer with his cargo. Once the grafts are transferred inside, Blackwing ushers the others into his vehicle bay and shuts the door behind them. A light-binder waiting within activates his graft to replace natural illumination, filling the expansive room with violet light.
Blackwing invites Lamp and Ashti to loiter in the wagon chamber while he and Candlewire head into town to gather provisions, store the grafts inside Wall Town’s vault, and organize a rescue mission to collect the overseer if the four of them don’t all return together by air. At his partner’s insistent prompting, the merchant promises that a caravan will depart no later than tomorrow and should arrive a few days behind them.
She sighs after agreeing to that timeline, then mutters. “The things I put up with.”
After confirming that his employee and guest are content to remain behind, Blackwing and company set off down the tunnel without them. As the group and their way-lighter move farther away, Lamp returns to the gate and opens its square window which overlooks the empty plane. The weak light passing through the small portal would barely suffice for reading, but it’s more than enough for conversation.
Left to their own devices for the time being, scholar and handmaiden play a guessing game in which they only communicate via hand signs. Ashti effortlessly dominates the contest, possessing an unfair advantage of only needing to guess from among the signs she personally taught to her opponent. Still, his erstwhile adversary remains a good sport about her unbroken string of victories, and Lamp continues learning.
Eventually, Lamp notices a faint blue light returning down the tunnel and calls a halt to their game. Hopping down from the back of the wagon in which they had waited, he approaches the room’s inward aperture and stands ready. In the distance, he can see Candlewire’s clear silhouette, with Blackwing’s adjacent form obscured by a bulky load carried before him. A single way-lighter walks behind the couple.
At their current pace, they shouldn’t take much longer than a minute to reach the larger chamber. Lamp resolves to remain standing until they arrive. Just as the advancing group enters what Lamp would consider shouting distance, however, they stop.
Lamp watches with mild confusion as Blackwing sets his weight onto the floor and Candlewire dismisses their attendant way-lighter with a wave towards Wall Town. Lamp can explain the latter action by assuming the others feel comfortable navigating the tunnel’s remaining length by the faint twilight entering through its gate’s small window, but why did they stop?
He can only conceive one purpose, and it soon plays out before him. A muffled conversation, too faint for him to discern its words, begins between the merchant pair. As they speak, Blackwing checks over his shoulder to gauge their distance from the departing light-binder, then peers down the hall in Lamp’s direction.
The scholar isn’t sure whether his employer can see him against the faint glow at his back. If so, the man shows no reaction before turning to murmur something to his companion in a soft but serious tone. She replies at a volume Lamp can barely hear.
He can’t help but wonder what they’re hiding from him. It doesn’t sound like the sweet, tender phrases of two lovers stealing a private moment or even the dry tones of business partners discussing commerce, shipping, and coin. No, it sounds like a plan or purpose being kept from ears that perhaps ought to hear.
From nearby, Ashti interrupts his focus with a whisper. “Are you trying to listen in?”
Lamp glances aside at the outlander, finding her leaning back against the stone wall beside the doorway. If his own form is visible from down the tunnel, hers is not.
“I shouldn’t…” He answers quietly, not quite denying her question.
She nods. “Do you want my help?”
He looks at her uncertainly, hesitant and conflicted, but doesn’t answer. Ashti nods again, then slowly raises a hand toward his neck. When Lamp doesn’t move away, she lays her fingers against the side of his head, behind his ear. The outlander waits a second longer, searching his eyes for indications of refusal. Finding none, she activates her magic.
Lamp’s focus abruptly tightens. At first, all sensations seem sharper, more acute. Then, everything but his hearing begins to fade while the sounds around him rapidly resolve and separate into distinct and discernable signals. Within seconds, he begins to understand what’s being said in the private conversation down the hall. Candlewire’s voice reaches him first.
“- worried about you, Black, and don’t you dare tell me not to be. This is our last stop before the point of no return. I need you to tell me what’s in your head.” By the blue glow of the departing way-lighter, Lamp barely sees as she caresses Blackwing’s human arm. “I trust you to point the way forward. Just tell me what you see.”
The merchant delays for a long breath before answering with a softly spoken question. “Have you felt that we’re being driven towards something? Not merely by happenstance or worldly pressures, but from above?”
The overseer exhales softly, then nods. “I won’t claim to know the will of heaven, but I admit our actions seem profoundly momentous. If the gods aren’t steering us directly, then I expect they’re at least watching.”
Blackwing slowly nods, and tension seems to lift from his shoulders as he forces his body to relax. “I think the same, Candle. I suspect we’ve stumbled blindly into the turning of an age, and I feel fate bearing down on us. I don’t know where the gods wish me to step now, but our surest path to ruin is to stand unmoved.”
Candlewire nods and strokes his arm again.
“You could ask Hand.” She suggests gently. “His thoughts on heavenly matters would prove more insightful than mine.”
“No.” The merchant firmly shakes his head. “Lamphand has too much fascination with the others, he’s clever enough to hear more than is said, and I haven’t secured his full loyalty. The man has proven he’ll place his own agenda first, when it suits him. I can’t trust-”
Lamp shakes his head, pulling away from Ashti’s hands and breaking the effect of her magic. His mind feels taxed by the unfamiliar experience, and a light headache has already started to build. That wasn’t why he stopped listening, but it’s an adequate excuse.
After taking a moment to collect himself, he turns to Ashti and whispers. “How did you know you could do that?”
She smirks proudly and answers in a low tone. “Did you think me a novice merely because my graft is new? I am only inexperienced with your world’s expression of magic, not with magic itself. Much of what I could do before I can still manage now, if not to the same extent.”
Lamp nods, and they fall into silence. The outlander doesn’t ask him what the merchants said or why he wanted to hear it. He supposes she could also have listened in herself, though he’s confident she wouldn’t have understood any significant portion.
The two of them wait without speaking until Blackwing and Candlewire finish their discussion and the merchant prince bends to lift his burden from the floor. When Lamp hears the rustle of cloth and wood, he raises a hand and activates his graft to give the returning party additional light. They offer him nods of thanks, followed by words once they finally enter the room.
If the scholar feels guilt, it doesn’t reach his face. If his employer feels suspicion, it doesn’t reach his.
They step outside together. Blackwing closes the gate behind them, reaching his graft arm through its window to reset the bar before pulling the tiny portal shut. Then they return to the airboat, adjust and reattach its net, and step abroad.
The vessel lifts upward with its lighter load, and a false wind builds again to buffet them upstream. Within minutes, the gargantuan final wall begins to fall behind.
A lonely world of lifeless stone lays out beneath them now. It offers space unlimited, but no grass, groves, or streams. No birds or deer. No faint light from distant farms, towns, or even campsites. If there are other humans somewhere in this great expanse, or any living things at all, then all of them are hiding too.
Lamp knows the truth, though. Nothing lives here. Nothing was meant to. Nothing had, until they came. Now the four of them are the only life wandering the outskirts of reality. Now nothing but the edge of the world lies ahead.
