An involuntary blink. A catastrophic lapse.
Impossibility … Only this time without the curious intimation of deformity that seemed to mar all things sorcerous. An absolute impossibility …
“Yis’arapitri far—”
Cuts and cuts and cuts …
“She says you only think you survived the Thousand Thousand Halls,” the old Wizard said.
The Survivor blinked … fell back and away, dissolving into the fractional multitudes he had always been, pieces glimpsing pieces, splinters of what would happen … each a living claim, yearning to be raised up from the multitudes—and to exult in the flesh of the real.
He gazed at the pregnant woman, a new assemblage, clustered like winter bees about a new resolution. All the world fell to shadow and rags about the fixed point of her gaze.
His grin was both easy and sad, the smile of one who understands the errors of the heart too well not to forgive the hatred of another.
“Resirit manu cousa—”
“She says,” the old Wizard said scowling, “that you just decided to murder her.”
Cuts and cuts and cuts.
He watched the couple through the dancing, windswept pulse of their fire. They sat one about the other facing the night. Mimara huddled armour and all in the old Wizard’s arms, though she was the stronger, clutching one of his hands to her golden belly. Achamian stared out, his bearded profile daubed in orange, his gaze baffled by the wonder beneath his palm. The awe that was the future.
Wolves barked and bickered and crooned, yelping cacophonies that were pared into long solitary wails. Only predators dared call out to the void of night, beasts that were never eaten. Until this evening, he had not imagined the void could answer …
That it harboured entities every bit as predatory … more.
“How did she know?” the boy whispered in the dark.
Only Cause could effect knowledge.
“This World,” a fraction replied, “possesses directions the D?nyain could not fathom.”
He was known—he who had confounded his Elders with his gifts. She had looked upon him, and had sounded him to his dregs.
“But how?”
Shadows roiled in the darkness.
The Survivor turned away from the wavering image of Mimara and Achamian, immured the boy within the vast apparatus of his scrutiny. He reached out, curved his palm about the arc of the boy’s cheek. A fraction peered at the scarred, puckered skin against smooth.
“The Soul is Many,” another fraction said.
“And the World is One,” the boy replied, perplexed, for this catechism had been among the first he had learned.
The Survivor let slip his hand, turned to resume his scrutiny of the couple.
“But I don’t understand,” the small voice pressed from his periphery.
Always so open, the boy—so trusting.
“Cause measures the distance between things …” one fraction said, while another continued scrutinizing the couple. “This is why the strength of the D?nyain has always lain in grasping the Shortest Path …”
“But for her to know about the stones …” the boy said. “What possible path could deliver that knowledge?”
The fraction that listened nodded.
“None,” whispered the fraction that spoke.
The fraction that watched presided over the labour of yet others, whisking scenarios of act and consequence, all of them involving the death of the pregnant woman. By simply announcing his intent she had disastrously complicated its execution …
“But what does that mean?” the boy asked.
Cuts and cuts and cuts …
“That the World …” a voice began, “is one in every respect.”
Fractions mewled and screamed in the dark.
“What are you saying?”
Something, the desperation hidden in the fluting striations of the boy’s voice perhaps, suspended the numberless labours dividing his soul. Why? a fraction asked. Why begin plotting her death before comprehending the ground of what had transpired?
The Survivor pinned the boy with his regard.
“That all of this has somehow already happened.”
The old man moaned in his sleep—cried out.
The pregnant woman stirred from his side, yanked herself upright in bleary alarm. She made no move to rouse him, electing to hang at his side instead, her face drawn with exhaustion. She had grown accustomed to these momentary, nocturnal vigils, thoughts freighted with the sloth of unconsciousness.
She laid a hand upon the old Wizard’s breast, a reflex borne of thoughtless intimacy. A palm like an ear held against his heart.
The old man grew still.
The fire had wheezed into oblivion. The encircling night howled with wind, altitude, and gaping emptiness. The Heavens illumined all …
Nothing sensible cued the sudden look she shot in the D?nyain’s direction. She was blind again—a fact made clear by the swarming indications of fear and indecision. Fully human.
She locked eyes with the fraction watching.
The World is One, a fraction recalled a fraction saying …