Blackwing’s leather soles scrape softly against the deck’s rough-planed wood as he lands in a gap amidst his lounging sailors. Lamp and Owl touch down a moment later, releasing their porter’s graft arm as he restores their natural weight.

  Candlewire, still perched atop Blackwing’s opposite arm and shoulder, warns the man that she’s about to dismount. He nods and tells her he’s ready, and she nods back. Then, keeping a hand on her business partner’s arm for stability, the overseer scoots forward and until she falls.

  Candlewire’s body descends to the floor at half-speed, allowing her to settle down with a coordinated grace that belies her near-blindness and lingering intoxication. Maintaining a soft grip on Blackwing’s bicep, she asks him to point her towards aft. The merchant obliges, gently pushes on her shoulder until she faces the correct orientation.

  “Thank you. I’m taking the pavilion.” Candlewire softly declares. “Join me or don’t. Either way, I’m not sleeping in the hold.”

  With that, she sets off, cautiously maneuvering across the deck in the direction of her commandeered mattress. Blackwing watches the woman’s progress with a tired expression, only looking away once she successfully reaches the door of their presumably-shared suite.

  As Candlewire exits from view, the merchant shakes his head once but makes no comment. Instead, he turns away, walks to the quay-side railing of his ship, and calls down to the Glassblood detachment stationed below. He thanks the mercenaries for their service in guarding his ship and informs their leader of the vessel’s impending departure. He receives a clean salute and a curt acknowledgement in reply, along with a promise that the Glassbloods will stand ready until his ship has detached.

  Lamp takes note of the soldier’s tone, detecting an understated yet obvious respect which impresses the scholar considerably. While no member of Clearheart’s company would ever show naked scorn for a prospective client of Blackwing’s standing, her mercenaries also never engage in sycophancy. Whatever the merchant did during last night’s raid, it was enough to make the city’s greatest warriors regard him as a peer. That’s not an honor Lamp would ever covet for himself, but he recognizes its significance all the same. There are several basileis in this very city whom the Glassbloods hold in lower esteem.

  Lamp watches his employer with a fresh appreciation as the man turns from the ship’s railing and strides across its deck to give orders to his helmsman. Their conversation breaks after a mere few words when the shorter man steps away to begin rousing his sailors with shouted commands.

  Blackwing, left alone with no further orders to impart, stands motionless as the last dregs of his energy seem to run dry. His unfocussed eyes turn toward the exit of New Carcosa’s bay while his dark, rigid form looms above the deck like a stake driven through its wood. Between his black-painted armor, his unwashed face, and his numb expression, he almost resembles a lost specter from some ancient war. Only the sun on his skin and the worried crease of his brow reveal him as a living thing.

  Lamp approaches slowly, drawing close with a cautious, measured pace as if he’s worried that sudden motions might spook Blackwing into taking flight. When he finally reaches the other man, his employer looks down at him with tired eyes and a questioning expression. Lamp opens his mouth to speak with no foreknowledge of what he means to say. His next three words pour out almost on their own.

  “You did well.”

  Offering praise to a superior feels awkward. Though well-intentioned, this minor breach of rank might have caused offense in both of his prior professions, especially if given publicly. Today, however, and with this man, the gesture seems not only safe but necessary. Lamp can’t begin to guess when Blackwing last received words of genuine affirmation, but at this moment he looks like he needs them.

  Lamp receives his vindication a moment later when the tall man smiles in response and murmurs. “Thank you. And likewise.”

  Blackwing glances toward his pavilion and begins to turn his body that way, then pauses a moment before looking back at Lamp to mutter. “I can’t guarantee that either of us will survive the latter half of our journey. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Lamp nods. “I comprehend the danger. I’m willing to take this risk because I trust you to overcome it, but I do also recognize that death is a likely outcome. You don’t need to worry that I’m following you out of a misplaced belief in your infallibility. Also, when we voted on our plan, I wasn’t trying to overrule you. If you change your mind and decide we should wait, I won’t gainsay that decision. So please just tell me: is this what you actually want?”

  “Yes… Or what I feel is necessary.” Blackwing smiles tiredly. “Though I admit, I was surprised you agreed so readily. You’ve been bolder than I expected these past few days.”

  “You can blame yourself for my improvement.” Lamp answers with a minor grin. “Two weeks ago, I never would have volunteered for what we’re doing now. But the last time we were standing on the deck of a departing ship at a New Carcosan pier, deliberating whether to take the easy road or the grand one, I made a choice to give up safety for adventure. I won’t start backtracking now.”

  Maintaining his weary smile, the merchant slowly shakes his head. He seems poised to say something for a moment but ultimately swallows the words. Keeping his closing thoughts private, Blackwing finally completes his turn toward the captain’s pavilion and walks away.

  Without looking back, he tells Lamp that he’ll see him in a few hours when the helmsman decides they’ve traveled far enough north. As if on cue, the ship unmoors.

  Lamp feels the deck rock slightly beneath his feet as the vessel begins drifting away from its dock. He looks around for an unobtrusive place to loiter and spots Owl already leaning against the railing near the aft. Deciding he might as well join the outlander, Lamp maneuvers to her side.

  The girl greets him with a wordless wave, which he reciprocates. Then the two of them silently turn toward the coast to watch Lamp’s city recede. From their current distance, they can still see and hear the large crowds thronging the seafront of Clearheart’s district, and Lamp spies a few similar gatherings occurring elsewhere across the bay. He remarks to Owl that he doubts the celebrations will conclude until well after dusk.

  She agrees with a laugh, then tells him. “We’ll see the same in my own city soon enough.”

  “I look forward to it.” He replies with an encouraging smile that feels mostly sincere in spite of his reservations.

  As they lapse back into silence and look out over the waves, Lamp contemplates how it feels to leave his home for the second time. This departure feels less surreal, less exhilarating, and less apprehensive than his first. The lessening of those emotions makes space for a swell of melancholy mixed with hope.

  The life he chose to live for the past two years is fully gone, just like the other lives he lived before it. Funny how that keeps happening. One might expect fate to straighten out and grow predictable at some point, yet the maze winds ever onwards.

  Lamp muses on that subject for the few minutes it takes their ship to navigate through the busy traffic of New Carcosa’s harbor. His contemplation is only broken when they pass through the wide mouth of the bay and begin their westward turn.

  From his side, Owl murmurs. “I will never forget this sight.”

  “Nor will I.”

  The two of them stand together at the railing as the wind picks up and their ship’s single sail furls open to push them faster along the island’s southern coast. The farther west they travel, the more of his city falls behind the cover of the harbor’s rocky outer wall. Lamp keeps his eyes on the last visible sliver of home until it vanishes behind pale cliffs dotted with gnarled trees.

  Shortly afterward, a desire for shade and privacy drives the scholar down into the hold with Owl in tow. As they descend the final step, however, the handmaid stops behind him to inspect all corners of the gloom.

  “Do you see an issue?” Lamp asks with a casual tone. “Is the boat leaking?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing is amiss. Only that…”

  Her wandering eyes finally rests on one of the many wooden crates that cram the boat’s interior. Although cloth padding hides the containers’ contents, Lamp already knows what lies within. Still, he holds his tongue while Owl numbly murmurs. “Gods… They must fill most of these boxes down here with us. All those little bits of people…”

  Lamp waits a moment for the girl to collect herself, then asks without reproach or partiality. “Do you want to head back up?”

  She turns to him and smiles weakly. “Could we remain here by the stairwell instead? I would prefer to keep out of the sun but would rather not venture any deeper inside. Our presence almost feels like an intrusion.”

  “Of course. Anywhere you feel comfortable.”

  With Lamp’s agreement secured, the handmaid settles down nearby in a warm patch of indirect sunlight. Before joining her on the floor, Lamp volunteers to locate fresh water and a clean rag so Owl can finally wipe the silver paint off her face. She thanks him profusely and adopts an expression of self-conscious guilt as he sets off alone.

  The scholar hunts around on his own for a minute, searching for large ceramic jugs or a watertight barrel by his graft’s illumination. As he peruses the narrow isles, he averts his eyes from any crate clearly built to hold solid matter. He doesn’t want to see inside them. So long as he doesn’t look, he can pretend he isn’t walking through a tomb.

  Eventually, Lamp’s search achieves a successful conclusion, and he returns to his erstwhile ward with a filled cup in-hand and a makeshift towel over his arm. The girl gratefully accepts both items and immediately uses them to rub clean her skin, remarking as she does so at how good it feels to finally be rid of the stuff.

  Lamp waits for her to set the cloth aside before posing a request that hadn’t felt appropriate to ask in the midst of yesterday’s more serious matters.

  “Could you teach me some of that gestural language you used to communicate with Clearheart yesterday? I wasn’t aware it existed before you tried it on Emerald. There’s nothing quite like it in my world-tile, at least not to that level of sophistication. Did your people develop that system after the rupture?”

  “Ah.” Owl’s expression turns unsure, and her voice gains a nervous edge. “I can answer your questions, but the signs are forbidden to… to commoners. I was quite surprised when that young woman greeted me.”

  She folds her hands and takes a slow breath before pressing on. “I intend no offense, sir, but I cannot confidently say where you- or myself for that matter- currently fit into the social hierarchy of my kingdom. If you intended to remain here in your own world, then I would gladly teach you in contravention of our customs. However, we might encounter issues in my homeland if your knowledge is discovered. Regretfully, I must refuse. I am-”

  “Alright.”

  Lamp accepts her answer with mild disappointment, mournfully dismissing his idle fantasies of mastering a new language for the first time since childhood. That immediate acquiescence seems to take Owl aback, however; her mouth hangs slightly open for a moment, left in the lurch of an incomplete apology which her voice has now abandoned.

  Then the outlander’s face twists into shame, and she turns her head away from the stairwell’s light as if hoping to mask her guilty expression in the gloom. She briefly stares into the deep shadows of the hold before her eyes squeeze shut, and she draws a slow breath in through her nose.

  “How could I look down on you?” The girl asks more for her own ears than his. She turns back to face him with self-recrimination writ across her furrowed brow. “I apologize. After everything you’ve given and made possible for me, you deserve better.”

  She straightens her shoulders, raises her chin, and speaks clearly. “My answer was unworthy and ungrateful. Please forgive my rudeness. I will honor your request.”

  “Oh.” Feeling mildly uncomfortable at Owl’s sudden shift in temperament, Lamp averts his attention to study the sunbeams falling through the steps at his side. “No. That’s fine. You don’t have to.”

  “But I want to and will.” Her voice gains certainty. “This feels like the right thing to do, now that it is chosen. Besides, we already ignored much greater taboos in my journey to reach this point, and we plan to trample more of them after arriving at our destination. Why should I cling to this norm when I have already cast several of its superiors aside?”

  “I don’t want to cause you trouble.” Lamp answers hesitantly. “You or Blackwing.”

  “Your master will be immune from any serious consequence. You need not worry on his account.” She leans forward with an earnest expression. “All that matters is this: Do you still wish to learn?”

  “I...” He can’t lie. “Yes.”

  She smiles, seeming both relieved and pleased. “Which sign would you like to learn first? Most correspond to spoken words, but some cover broader subjects.”

  Lamp ponders for barely a second before replying. “Light.”

  Owl nods, then lifts her arm so that her right hand rises to eye-level where Lamp can watch it closely. She turns her palm downwards and brings her fingers and thumb into a single point before splaying them apart. She repeats this gesture twice, pinching and releasing her inverted grip. Lamp imitates her once, and she nods approvingly before lowering her hand back into her lap.

  “That sign is our most general symbol for light.” She explains. “It represents our flaring stars. We have other, more specific gestures for alternate light-sources, but all of them can be substituted by this.”

  Lamp pauses his practice with a satisfied smile, lowering his arm out of the way so he can meet his instructor’s eyes. “Thank you, Grayowl. I-”

  “Ashti.” The handmaid interjects with an awkward smile. “As you may recall from our first meeting, my given name is Ashti. I no longer see a point in guarding my identity. We have accomplished everything my anonymity was intended to enable, so I might as well become myself again.”

  Lamp’s smile softens. He considers pointing out that Blackwing would surely prefer that his peculiar guest remain inconspicuous for as long as possible, but he opts to hold his tongue on that subject. It isn’t likely to matter; the girl will return home soon enough. Still, he feels sincerely moved by her gesture, so he decides to reciprocate in the only way he can.

  “When you selected ‘Grayowl’ as your alias, you must have realized that my people name our children after their grafts, and that each name comprises two words which describe the child’s gods-given gift. You might also have noticed that we sometimes break each others’ names apart to speak either word alone. Typically, our friends and family speak the former half, while the latter is employed by our colleagues and social peers. If you would like, you may call me either ‘Lamp’ or ‘Hand.’”

  Owl- or rather, Ashti- beams, appearing just as touched by his openness as he was by hers.

  “I would like that.” She tells him softly. “Thank you, Lamp. I am glad to count you as my friend. Though we have known each other only a week, you already number among the best I have ever made.”

  “Oh…” The sweetness of that statement strikes directly at Lamp’s heart and nearly brings a tear to his eye. Despite that, he can’t help but tease. “Pickings must be slim in your society.”

  She returns his grin. “You have no idea. But I mean what I say. Few enough people outside my own family have ever championed my interests as you did before Lady Clearheart; fewer still would think to risk their stations on my behalf. You were true to me when it mattered most. I will never forget that, and at some point I will find a way to repay it.”

  Her smile turns lopsided and her tone grows rueful. “Also, I seldom encounter anyone who is at once bookish enough to spend hours prattling with me about magic and history while also being petty enough to enjoy court gossip. I tend to discuss those interests with separate acquaintances.”

  Lamp laughs at being called petty and replies. “I’m happy to accommodate.”

  “It is appreciated.”

  As the cheery moment passes, Lamp keeps their conversation going by asking Ashti to teach him another gestural word. The outlander obliges, showing him a few more hand signs at his iterated request. After the third example, he belatedly thinks to reciprocate with lessons of his own, and he asks his partner if she’d like to learn how to pronounce each word in his own language.

  Ashti agrees enthusiastically and remarks that she’d also like to resume practicing his people’s written script whenever time and utensils permit. He agrees to assist, but in the meantime, they’ll focus on speech and gesture.

  Before they start, however, the outlander closes her eyes and adopts a focused expression. A moment later, she nods with satisfaction.

  “None of the sailors are paying close attention.” She quietly explains. “I felt a few of them trying to listen-in earlier, but they seem to have given up. I doubt any of them can hear us over the wind and waves anyway.”

  “Good thinking.” Lamp nods in gratitude. “Still, even if they aren’t focused on us right now, it might be prudent to move further from the stairs before we start the next phase of our lesson. It’s one thing for us to speak the old tongue between ourselves, but I doubt Blackwing would be pleased if we let on that you don’t know our language at all.”

  Ashti blanches slightly at his suggestion but offers no objections, so they stand and walk a short way from the stairwell. Lamp settles down again once the noise from above seems suitably muted. He activates his graft so the two of them can see each other clearly, then asks his study partner to resume.

  Tucked away in the shadows of the hold, the two of them fall into a pleasant routine. Each takes a turn naming a word in the old tongue, then they teach each other new ways to convey it. Within an hour, they’ve begun communicating in basic sentences, though with little attention paid to proper grammar.

  Eventually, Lamp proposes a break from practice by using a sequence of half-remembered hand signs to ask his partner if she’d like to quench her thirst from the crew’s shared supply of water. She seems to understand him on his first attempt, which leaves him feeling rather proud of himself.

  He collects the cup Ashti used to clean her face, which she had grabbed and brought along when they moved away from the stairs, then sets off into the gloom to refill the vessel. As he moves away, he hears a frustrated sigh and a hurried prayer to appease lost spirits before the girl scrambles to follow after him.

  Catching up, she pointedly asks Lamp in his own language, ‘How do you say’ before switching back to her own to complete the phrase ‘abandoned in a graveyard.’ He laughs and provides a translation along with an apology, then goes on to tell her how glad he is to have such an eager student and patient teacher in the same person. She begrudgingly returns the sentiment.

  Their conversation enters a lull as they reach the rain barrel and Lamp pries its lid off. He ladles water into their cup and hands the first drink to Ashti before taking the second and third for himself. As the outlander waits for him to slake his thirst, her expression shifts into a contemplative mien before slowly turning bashful.

  As he lowers his cup, she quietly remarks. “You must think us strange to control who can or cannot learn such a basic skill.”

  “Do you mean the hand signs? Well… It’s not as shocking as you’d think.” Lamp answers with a rueful shake of his head. “I’ve seen language used as a signifier of status many times before, although it was employed in a different manner.”

  “Oh?” Her tone invites him to explain.

  He nods and obliges. “The highest priests of our Blessed Order refuse to speak the common tongue because they claim it would ‘profane their minds’ and distance them from the gods.”

  He closes the cask and presses down its lid before continuing. “When speaking to outsiders- which their lot’ll only do if that outsider is someone important- they rely on interpreters in the same manner you do, but without any genuine need. I’ve long suspected they only uphold that practice to make themselves seem grander than the basileis even though they wield far less power in the secular realm.

  “It makes a lot of dull work for their acolytes, especially if the meeting has a boring subject like wine provisions or architectural repairs, but I suppose it’s lucky in the end, since that drudgery was how I cut my teeth on what recently became my full profession. You know, I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that I-”

  “Excuse me.” A familiar voice interrupts from the base of the stairs.

  Lamp turns to look over his shoulder and finds his employer standing on the last step. The haggard man looks no less tired now than he had when they parted company slightly more than an hour ago, but he at least appears washed and wears fresh clothes. Lamp almost asks Blackwing whether he and Candlewire slept well- or at all- but he recognizes the implications of that question in time to stifle it.

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  “Yes?” Lamp replies instead while walking toward the light with Ashti in tow.

  “We’re turning south.” The merchant informs him quietly. “It’s sooner than planned, but my way-lighter confirmed he sees no ships on the horizon or settlements along the shore. I’m about to inform my crew that we lied about dumping the grafts. I’d like you to soften that blow by giving the victims a symbolic funeral. Would you feel comfortable attempting that? This is a request, not an order, but I’m still breaking my word not to ask for favors outside your contract. I’ll understand if-”

  “I’ll do it.” Lamp interrupts soft-spoken confidence. “And if it puts your mind at ease, think of this as a favor to the dead, not to my boss.”

  Blackwing nods stiffly, saying nothing in response. Though his face remains stoic, his eyes show gratitude. After a silent moment, he turns and ascends the stairs, trusting Lamp to follow after. The scholar delays a moment before pursuing, looking back over his shoulder to explain the development to his curious tagalong.

  “Of course.” She replies somberly once Lamp concludes. “There should be a ceremony to honor the dead… And I suppose there’s no one better than you to deliver it, considering-”

  Ashti’s voice hitches as her eyes drop downward to settle on his hands, and her complexion turns pale. The scholar can imagine what she’s thinking now; his own mind turns the same way. He grimly reflects that- if not for a small twist of fate- if not for Blackwing coming to recruit him on the same night he was attacked- his own grafts might have lain somewhere in the butchers’ haul while the rest of his body rotted in a shallow grave that would be visited by no one.

  Lamp calmly nods to the outworlder, holding the pain off his face while acknowledging a dark truth neither of them wants to speak aloud. The girl looks up to meet his gaze, but although her expression indicates there’s more she wants to say, no words come. That’s just as well. Lamp would rather not hear the rest quite yet. He wants a clear head for the sacred ceremony to come.

  He nods then turns away. “I’m needed upstairs.”

  As Lamp climbs into the sunlight, he doesn’t hear Ashti follow. That’s fine. He didn’t have enough time to teach her most of the words he’s about to use. She wouldn’t understand.

  When he emerges on deck, he finds most of the crew assembled around Blackwing. Only Candlewire is nowhere to be seen; between the copious alcohol consumption and a missed night of sleep, Lamp imagines she’d be difficult to rouse at this point. Aside from her, however, the entire ship has gathered within earshot.

  Lamp walks slowly to Blackwing’s side, not wanting to distract the man’s audience as the merchant explains to his sailors that they joined this expedition under false pretenses. All present seem displeased by that revelation, but none speak out of turn. Candlewire truly chose them well.

  Reaching the edge of the crowd, Lamp pauses to hear Blackwing’s closing words.

  “These grafts will not be sold, traded, or ransomed.” The merchant meets as many gazes as he can, looking from one face to the next with steady, earnest eyes. “I cannot tell you what we mean to accomplish, but I swear to you that human lives will be saved by our actions. Upon my name and all I own, I promise that I am doing what is necessary for the welfare of others.”

  Then Blackwing turns and nods to Lamp. “To make things right as best I can, I brought someone to offer prayers on behalf of the dead. Please allow a moment of silence before he begins.”

  The merchant steps aside, joining the ring of onlookers and Lamp moves forward to take his place at the center. All eyes now fall upon the scholar. Many of them glance down at his yellow himation, clearly appreciating its implication. That garment was selected by Blackwing to sell this very ruse to a different audience, and now the holy color finally seems to do its job.

  In Lamp’s case, it was only ever half a lie.

  He doubts Blackwing fully appreciates just how qualified his translator is to perform this task. Before Lamp left the cult, he was nearly ordained. This moment brings him back into the life he almost led- to what had been, for all his youth, the only life he’d wanted.

  Now his actions almost seem to parody the man he was expected to become. As he composes himself before the crowd and considers his words, he feels fraudulent. But it’s too late to shirk this duty now, and he wouldn’t retreat from it even if he still had the option; he bears a solemn obligation that extends well beyond any onus to his employer.

  Lamp owes this to the dead. For all that he’s not one of the butchers who tore the stolen grafts from their owners’ bodies, it was he who said those grafts should be stolen again. It was he who said they should be carried far from home and fed to a monster in a land without a sun. And in return for what he’s taken, there’s nothing he can provide apart from final rites. He hopes that’s enough to put lost souls at ease.

  Drawing a deep breath in, the scholar commits to his choice of sermon. Just before beginning, though, he glances toward the stairwell that leads down into the hold. There, to his unanticipated relief, he finds Ashti standing on its highest step. The outlander wears a sorrowful expression fully befitting the solemn moment. He nods to her in thanks before turning to face the crowd.

  Then, lifting his arms and raising his face toward the bright heavens, he closes his eyes and begins his invocation.

  “Oh Wayward, who walks each path of all kingdoms, wastes, and forests.

  You who guides lost travelers back from ill-fated roads onto their proper course.

  You who leads the dead to judgement.

  You, last born of chaos. You, first to speak. You, first worshiped.

  Messenger and herald. Ranger and scout. Breaker of chains and source of hope.

  Hear me, oh Great One, and shepherd these unknown souls down your winding road onto their final rest.”

  A quick breath in, and Lamp continues.

  “Oh Regent, who dwells in justice and inspires law.

  You who avenges and restores his people.

  You who guards the gate of death.

  You, third born of chaos. You, first to rule. You, last to fall silent.

  King-maker and crown. Witness and judge. Bringer of order and champion of unity.

  Hear me, oh Great One, and greet these unknown souls with kindness when they fall before your feet.

  Forgive their failings and let them pass beneath your arch to find solace everlasting.”

  Lamp pauses deliberately before naming the final death god. The silence itself beckons to her, but that alone will not suffice.

  “Oh Mirror, who allots and collects our souls.

  You who gifts us wisdom, who breaks our foolish pride.

  You who shelters the dead.

  You, first born of chaos. You, least known. You, deepest felt.

  Reflection and shadow. Beginning and end. Source of self and whisper of doubt.

  Hear me, oh Great One, and grant these poor souls succor when they reach your hall.

  Lull them into gentle dreams and welcome their weary ghosts into the company of those they love.”

  He lowers his arms and concludes. “We offer our dreams in gratitude. Alethea.”

  The crew echoes his refrain.

  Lamp opens his eyes and looks among the sailors, meeting solemn faces with as much serenity as he can manage. The assemblage awaits his next words in silence, knowing that the funeral rites are only half completed. With heaven hopefully appeased, Lamp transitions to a more secular oration.

  “We cannot know whose spirits we commend onto the gods this day. It is my hope that their bodies already lie interred and their families have already mourned them properly, but hope is all we have in that regard. We cannot know who we mourn or who has mourned them before us.

  “What can be said is that many of us have encountered people similar to them. We have met those unfortunate and isolated folk who vanish into dark nights and never emerge living. They are the poor and the forgotten. The unlucky, the meek, and the frail. All within our city know of these people, and many choose to scorn them, though we know full-well what may result from their exclusion.

  “I ask that you offer gentleness and generosity to such people when you meet them. Kindness toward the destitute will serve you well, for with age and ill-fortune you may join their ranks in time. Let us pray then, and let us also work, toward an age in which all the meager people of our city may live without the fear of dusk and lengthening shadows. Let us not wait to grant them vengeance and farewells, but rather strive to protect them while they still draw breath.

  “One day, gods willing, peace may dwell as easily among the living as it does among the dead. Until then, create it where you may, and carry it within your hearts from this moment onward. Alethea.’

  Once more, the crew echoes him.

  Lamp bows his head to the congregation, signaling the end of his sermon. Blackwing waits a quiet moment before stepping forward again. He murmurs thanks to Lamp and praises his words before turning to the sailors and raising his voice again. The merchant asks his people to swear secrecy about the fate of the stolen grafts. They collectively answer in affirmation of the oath, speaking with neither enthusiasm nor resentment.

  The general mood seems to be one of stoic acceptance. So, whether or not Lamp succeeded in bringing peace to the dead, it seems that he managed to grant a measure of it to the living. That’s something, at least.

  However, as Lamp casts his eyes across the crowd, he finds that the prevailing attitude of calm is not universally shared. He catches a few sailors looking his way with unreadable expressions and one casting an openly suspicious glower, although that man quickly turns away when Lamp meets his gaze.

  The scholar tries not to let discomfort show on his face as he wonders what the onlookers think of him. Were he in their place, two lines of questions would occupy the forefront of his mind. Firstly: ‘Is that man dressed in yellow truly a priest?’ and secondly: ‘If he is indeed a godly man, then what does his presence here portend? Does Blackwing intend to deliver his trove of stolen grafts into the hands of the Blessed Order? What could the cult possibly intend to do with them?’

  Whatever questions the crew have in mind, Lamp’s happy to let them imagine their own answers; he’s not sure he could bring himself to lie about his affiliation if they asked him outright. Fortunately, no one seems intent on interrogating him or Blackwing. The sailors simply follow their helmsman’s barked orders to return to their posts around the ship, most of them settling in to row.

  Before making his own exit, Lamp looks to his employer to see if he needs anything further. The taller man nods in response.

  “Thank you again for doing that.” He murmurs. “I hope we’ve assuaged any concerns of blasphemy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I mean to sleep through what’s left of the morning.”

  The merchant starts to turn away before pausing for one last comment. “Weather permitting, we’ll sail through the night. I can’t know how far ahead of us word has already traveled. No port is safe but home.”

  With that, Blackwing strides off to return to his slumber. Lamp, lacking any reason to remain above deck and preferring to step out of the crew’s line of sight, descends into the hold. He finds the outlander waiting for him at the base of the stairs, seated on a crate of dried provisions with her hands clenched together via interlocking fingers. When she looks up at him, grief and shame twist her feather-patterned features into a pitiable expression.

  He tentatively approaches the girl and quietly asks. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.” She answers, keeping her voice composed despite the sorrow running through it.

  Lamp smiles sadly, not believing her for a moment. “Did the funeral ceremony trouble you? I noticed you disappeared partway through.”

  Ashti wrings her hands for a moment before pulling them apart and laying her palms flat atop her legs. She takes a deep breath before forcing herself to meet his eyes.

  “I am so, so sorry, Lamp.” She begins haltingly. “I- I was too caught up in everything. Too worried about the raid, about Lord Blackwing and Lady Clearheart going off to fight for me, then so glad when they returned safely. So happy to have found a way to save my princess and so focused on the journey back to her. So eager to be home again… There was no space inside my head, or I just never bothered to make it. Either way, I failed to think deeply about what this sacrifice must mean to you.”

  She turns her head away from him and presses her eyes shut, ashamed again. “I knew. I knew that we were- that I was taking from- robbing- graves… That I am converting your people into food for mine, and that parts of your own body were nearly giblets in the same pile… I just… I pushed it out. As much as I could. It was easier for me not to feel that weight. Easier for me to think of a dozen other pressing things. So much was happening at once… I…”

  Lamp steps forward and wraps the girl in a loose hug, bringing his chest close to her head but not pressing her into it. A long breath passes in which Ashti’s arms continue hanging limply at her sides; she neither returns his gesture nor pushes him away. Lamp imagines she doesn’t know what to do or feel right now, so he releases her and takes a small step back before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder like his mother did for him in his oldest, faintest memories.

  He squeezes gently until Ashti looks back up at him, then smiles down at the girl with all the kindness he can force his face to hold. But despite his best efforts, he can feel his expression yielding to the bitter sorrow that comes from watching a piece of innocence die inside a younger person’s heart.

  “You didn’t kill them.” He calmly states. “You didn’t cut them apart, and you didn’t ask Blackwing to gather up their remains so you could smuggle them home. Other people were responsible for each of those choices. I won’t tell you not to feel any blame, because to some degree you should, but just remember- when you’re divvying up our guilt- not to claim too large a share for yourself. Most of those portions rightfully belong to other people.’’

  Ashti nods and smiles up at him with a conflicted mix of gratitude and grief as he releases her shoulder and steps back again. She thankfully doesn’t seem off put by his show of familiarity. He’s glad his impulse to provide comfort didn’t offend her; it had been the best way he could think of at that moment to prove his forgiveness.

  He’s not sure what to do next, however, and stands awkwardly at arms length for a moment before the outlander clears her throat.

  “Thank you.” She weakly offers her gratitude before commenting. “While I could not understand the words of your sermon, it seemed quite well-delivered. Do you have prior experience or training with such ceremonies?”

  “Training only. That was my first time delivering a proper eulogy to a full ‘congregation.’”

  She nods, then hesitates before asking. “If I may intrude into your personal history, what exactly is your connection to the primary religious body in this world-tile? I remember you laughed two nights ago when I asked whether you attended their services. Are you an outside observer, or do you have a deeper connection?”

  “The latter.” He answers with a rueful half-smirk. “I was about as much of an insider as someone my age could ever be. They raised me, actually. I was in their care from around the age of five until roughly twenty years later.”

  “And while you were with the cult, they trained you to become a priest?” She waits for him to confirm, then asks. “Were you, at some point? Or did you leave before…”

  Her voice trails off uncertainly. She’s clearly conflicted on whether she ought to continue pursuing this line of questions. Lamp’s still willing to humor it for now, so he finds his own stack of crates on which to sit, taking the first container that holds anything besides grafts. Once settled across from Ashti, he turns to face her with a small smile born of bittersweet nostalgia.

  “I left them right before crossing the finish line.” He tells her wistfully. “It was a very near thing. I managed to remain in good standing- excellent really- for most of my time there and likely would have advanced far up the ranks by now if they hadn’t exiled me.”

  “Oh!” The outlander gasps and leans back in shock. A jumbled mix of emotions quickly plays across her face before she settles on apprehension. “Is that a sensitive subject? No. I apologize. Of course it is, and I have no business delving into it. Please forget I asked.”

  He shrugs. “No harm done. It was a sore spot for a long time, but I’ve mostly resolved those feelings.”

  Mostly. Only mostly.

  Lamp can tell by Ashti’s expression that she wants to ask further questions about his past or the structure of the cult, but he doesn’t prompt her to begin, so she lets the subject drop. Abandoning her excavation of his personal mysteries, she asks Lamp if he’d like to resume practicing handsigns, to which he happily agrees.

  The two of them spend the next several hours practicing each others’ languages in the recesses of the hold, pausing as needed to scrounge for food and water. Late into the afternoon, Blackwing ventures below deck to check up on them. The merchant seems to approve of their efforts once Lamp brings him up to speed and even settles down for a while to learn a few basic phrases in the old tongue.

  Ashti- after reintroducing herself to Blackwing as she did with Lamp- teaches the man a basic phrase in her language which she advises him to say once they make their presence known in Baghdokhtaran.

  She speaks the sentence in halting fragments, waiting for him to repeat each segment after her. “I am. Lord Blackwing. Of the. Golden Spear. I have come. To meet with. Lady Jaleh of House Caution. I request. Your hospitality.”

  Blackwing completes the full phrase on his own a few times, then asks. “Is it best to call myself a lord?”

  Ashti nods sharply. “Yes. The title is already granted to you in courtly discussion, and Lady Jaleh speaks of you as a peer. You would not advantage yourself by diminishing your own station upon your arrival.”

  “Very well.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward and he mutters. “I suppose I owe an old friend money.”

  Without elaborating on that statement, the merchant rises back to his feet while declaring that he plans to eat soon. He invites his employee and his guest to join him. Both accept, and the trio heads upstairs to the captain’s pavilion for an early dinner.

  Candlewire, now awake, sober, and well-rested, greets them from behind the small room’s only desk as they enter. Setting her work aside, she assists Blackwing in arranging a simple but plentiful meal from their cabin’s personal store of food. Once their low table’s narrow surface is fully covered, the four of them settle on the floor and begin to dine.

  As their meal progresses, the copper-leafed woman proves herself to be charming and entertaining company, quick with a joke while short both on modesty and deference. She shares a few amusing anecdotes about her interactions with the basileis and other notables of New Carcosa. Blackwing, clearly having heard these stories multiple times before, occasionally chimes in to supply additional context.

  Eventually, Candlewire runs out of ‘dinner-appropriate’ stories and shifts their conversation’s focus to Ashti. The curious overseer poses many of the same questions that Lamp had asked days prior, which he manages through great effort to refrain from answering on the handmaiden’s behalf.

  The scholar quickly discovers, to his great delight, that Candlewire read several of Emerald’s ‘archaeological’ reports and still remembers many of Lamp’s suppositions and insights. The overseer even teases him about some of the details he got wrong, prompting an endearing attempt by Ashti to speak in Lamp’s defense.

  Hours fall away in this pleasant manner, and by the time the four of them emerge from their protracted meal, dusk has already begun to descend. After glancing at their lagging sail and the surrounding islands, Blackwing predicts they’ll have at least three more hours on the water before they reach Trembleheel. He starts to muse on whether they should immediately proceed through the tunnel to the caldera’s exterior slope, but Candlewire sharply cuts him off.

  “I am not working two all-nighters in a row without a damn good reason.” She announces in a tone that brooks no debate. “If you disagree, please explain to everyone what critically urgent matter necessitates none of us getting to sleep in real beds tonight.”

  “Never mind.” The merchant relents with the weary air of a man who recognizes the inevitability of his own defeat from several prior experiences. “We’ll rest at my manor.”

  Lamp does his best to suppress a smile while Ashti conspicuously looks away. Blackwing pretends not to notice either of their reactions as he bids them goodnight for the time being and returns with Candlewire to their shared quarters. As the door shuts behind them, Lamp and Ashti are left to their own devices on the deck.

  Not yet feeling tired enough to sleep, Lamp asks his young compatriot if she’d like to linger a moment by the ship’s edge to feel the cool sea breeze. Ashti agrees with a light tone, and they walk together to the side. Upon reaching it, the outlander grips the railing tightly and stares down at the dark water for several seconds before either of them speak.

  Hoping to distract the girl, Lamp points a hand out towards a small landmass on the horizon and tries telling her a bit of trivia about the local islands. At the same moment, she addresses him in a more serious tone. They both falter, then Lamp apologies and waits for Ashti to continue.

  She nods in thanks before repeating herself. “I would like to tell you a story, Lamp. One of the most important stories from my culture: the ascension of our first icon of growth. You may have seen references to this tale in the art we traded to Lord Blackwing, and I expect you gleaned much else from yesterday’s conversation with Lady Clearheart, but I want you to understand the full context.”

  The outlander looks away from him, casting her eyes over the waves. She seems slightly older in that moment, or perhaps simply more worn. Her familiar expression of determination has a darker, more sullen cast.

  “Before I begin the telling, I must explain something else. Two things, really.” She turns back to him. “First: The quantity of soulmasks in my world is always constant. Whenever a wearer dies, or has their mask removed by royal decree, a young noble elsewhere in the kingdom is immediately raised into the Select by heavenly appointment. Our magic has distributed itself in that manner since the rupture. The number of soulmasks equals the initial headcount of surviving refugees who founded our civilization.

  “Second: Soulmasks replace the front of the wearer’s head.” She splays her fingertips across her face, touching her middle finger and thumb against her eyebrows and covering her expression with her hand. “We often speak of our masks as though they are worn, but if you ever see one, it will appear to you as though it was carved into its owner’s skull. The mask takes away the wearer’s eyes, nose, and mouth to replace them with a beautiful painting.”

  Her arm falls back to her side as she continues. “After you obtain a soulmask, you feel no need to eat or breathe, and you lose the ability to see or smell. Your magic provides for those needs instead, sustaining your life and pushing an awareness of your environment directly into your mind. Because the masks possess a life-giving property, our ancestors who survived the rupture had little reason to care that they now dwelled in a land incapable of producing food. Once they started creating families, however…”

  She glances directly down into the waves that crash against their hull and directs her next words to the sea foam. Her voice sounds detached.

  “Everything seemed fine for the first few births, so the story has it. Enough of our initial survivors had already ended their lives out of despair or died from other causes that we had a decent store of masks prepared for the firstborn of our nascent generation. Back then, the only people still available for a soulmask were newborns, so babies manifested magic within moments of their faces being exposed to air. Their mothers never even had to nurse them.

  “However… However, the number of births quickly outpaced the number of deaths, and my ancestors soon discovered our civilization’s enduring, fundamental problem. Any children born beyond the allotted number of masks were doomed to starve as soon as their mothers could no longer feed them. The only long-term solution to prevent the death of every newborn child was to free additional masks from their current hosts.

  “Many of our oldest survivors chose to end their own lives to make space for the new generation, but the count of pregnancies had already exceeded the quantity of elders before anyone realized our masks were limited in number.

  “Once we ran out of willing volunteers, people started getting desperate. Some parents committed suicide to increase their child’s chances. Other families gave up on reproduction entirely and killed their own children out of mercy. Others still, the first to lose their status as nobles, murdered the babies of others to reduce their own child’s pool of competitors. It was our kingdom’s darkest hour. Two developments saved us from it.”

  She holds up a single finger. “Our king managed to locate the icon of judgment in the trackless dark of the great plateau. Judgement had served our royal family for generations before the rupture, and it was known to be capable of performing miracles. When our king found it, he begged the icon to take his mask away and grant its magic directly to his newborn heir.

  “Judgement ignored the pleading of its king, so the desperate father asserted his title and spoke his request again as an order. That time, the icon listened. It granted his wish, transferring his soulmask to his son. With that feat so easily accomplished, the king grew more ambitions. He ordered Judgment to return to his service and accompany him home. It obeyed, and the king returned to his people with an icon at his command.”

  Ashti holds up a second finger.

  “The king’s only son was born after the rupture, but his wife had borne multiple daughters before then. One of them possessed a mask that was capable of growing pear trees, and she could command those trees to bear fruit. However, objects created by mortal magic last only as long as our attention remains upon them, and the things we make only contain the superficial properties of the matter they imitate.

  “So it was that the princess could grow pears that felt real, that tasted sweet, and that filled a hungry stomach, but her fruit could not nourish, and cuttings from her trees could not grow. Her power seemed at first like the perfect answer to our kingdom’s woe, but it was nothing more than cruel illusion.”

  The handmaiden relaxes her hand and rests her arm on the railing. She draws a long breath in before resuming.

  “When the king and his icon returned in triumph, the pear-tree princess asked him whether Judgement could make her magic permanent. So the king, tired and nearly starved from his arduous journey, recklessly repeated his daughter’s question as command, and the icon made it so. Judgment seized control of the princess’s magic and flooded her body with power beyond her mortal limits, forcibly transforming her into a false icon and fulfilling her father’s order in the most effective manner it could.

  “That was how the cycle of sacrifice began.” Ashti speaks matter-of-factly, still facing away from him. “And that is how it continues. Sons become kings. Daughters become martyrs. People get to eat.”

  The handmaiden stares out over the water, her eyes not focusing on any particular landmark. Lamp, unsure of what to say, holds his thoughts unspoken. After a solemn moment, Ashti continues in a whisper.

  “But not my love. She gets to live. Her, and maybe every woman who follows in her brother’s line. The three of us might just save them all… And all it cost was the lifeblood of a hundred strangers.” She at last turns to face Lamp with a haunted expression. “We will trade one injustice for another. Does that make us monsters, or only hypocrites?”