‘Meaning what?’ Rautos asked, his voice strangely tight, his face pale.
Breath shrugged. ‘Before and after are meaningless. Ahead and behind, then and soon, none of them mean anything. All those words that try to force order and, uh, sequence.’ She shrugged again. ‘You won’t see Starwheel in the castings. You’ll just see Fury.’
‘How do you know?’
Her smile was chilling. ‘I just do.’ She pointed at the second to last Tile. ‘ Root , and on the other side, Ice Haunt -they both seek the same thing. You get one or the other, never both. This last one, Blueiron there, that’s the sorcery that gives life to machines-it’s still strong in this place, I can feel it.’ She turned the Tile on to its other side. ‘ Oblivion . Ware this one, it’s a curse. A demon. It eats you from the inside out. Your memories, your self.’ She licked her lips once more, this time nervously. ‘It’s very strong right now. And getting stronger… someone’s coming, someone’s coming to find us.’ She hissed suddenly and swept up the last Tiles. ‘We need-we need to feed Blueiron. Feed it!’
Taxilian spoke from the doorway. ‘I know, Breath. It is what I am trying to do.’
She faced him, teeth bared. ‘Can you taste this place?’
‘I can.’
From one side Asane whimpered, and then flinched as Nappet lashed out a foot to kick her. He would have done more but Last interposed himself between the two, arms crossed, eyes flat. Nappet sneered and turned away.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Rautos. ‘I taste nothing-nothing but dust.’
‘It wants our help,’ Taxilian announced.
Breath nodded.
‘Only I don’t know how.’
Breath held up a knife. ‘Open your flesh. Let the taste inside, Taxilian. Let it inside.’
Was this madness, or the only path to salvation? The ghost did not know. But he sensed a new flavour in the air. Excitement? Hunger? He could not be certain.
But Sulkit was on its way. Still gaunt, still weak. On its way, then, not to deliver slaughter.
The flavour, the ghost realized, was hope.
Some roads, once set out upon, reveal no possible path but forward. Every other track is blocked by snarls of thorns, steaming fissures or rearing walls of stone. What waits at the far end of the forward path is unknown, and since knowledge itself may prove a curse, the best course is simply to place one foot in front of the other, and think not at all of fate or the cruel currents of destiny.
The seven or eight thousand refugees trudging in Twilight’s wake were content with ignorance, even as darkness closed in as inexorable as a tide, even as the world to either side of the Road of Gallan seemed to lose all substance, fragments drifting away like discarded memories. Linked one to another by ropes, strands of netting, torn strips of cloth and hide-exhausted but still alive, far from terrible flames and coils of smoke-they need only follow their Queen.
Most faith was born of desperation, Yan Tovis understood that much. Let them see her bold, sure strides on this stony road. Let them believe she had walked this path before, or that by virtue of noble birth and title, she was cloaked with warm, comforting knowledge of the journey they had all begun, this flowing river of blood. My blood.
She would give them that comfort. And hold tight to the truth that was her growing terror, her surges of panic that left her undergarments soaked with chill sweat, her heart pounding like the hoofs of a fleeing horse-no, they would see none of that. Nothing to drive stark fear into them, lest in blind horror the human river spill out, pushed off the road, and in screams of agony find itself shredded apart by the cold claws of oblivion.
No, best they know nothing.
She was lost. The notion of finding a way off this road, of returning to their own world, now struck her as pathetically naive. Her blood had created a gate, and now its power was thinning; with each step she grew weaker, mind wandering as if stained with fever, and even the babble of Pully and Skwish behind her was drifting away-their wonder, their pleasure at the gifts of Twilight’s blood had grown too bitter to bear.
Old hags no longer. Youth snatched back, the sloughing away of wrinkles, dread aches, frail bones-the last two witches of the Shake danced and sung as if snake-bitten, too filled with life to even take note of the dissolution closing in on all sides, nor their Queen’s slowing pace, her drunken weaving on the road. They were too busy drinking her sweet blood.
Forward. Just walk. Yedan warned you, but you were too proud to listen. You thought only of your shame. Your brother, Witchslayer. And, do not forget, your guilt. At the brutal reprieve he gave you. His perfect, logical solution to all of your problems.
