Chapter 5

  Elizabeth Eddison

  Dyaz, the frozen city, lay in a broad valley which terminated at the shore of a lake. The lake, frozen so deeply and so long that the huts of small refugee neighborhoods sprawled out onto its pale expanse, reached to the distant foothills of the Mountain. Giant lily pads dotted the surface of the lake, often supporting ancient frozen lilies the size of houses. A crumbling stone bridge spanned the lake from city to Mountain, many cold miles.

  Dyaz, overflowing with animalistic citizens of the Garden Moon, had adapted to the perpetual winter. Homes were insulated with heaps of snow packed against the walls. The immense trees which rose above the city had been hollowed out. Many residences extended deep into the earth, stone-hard with permafrost, sheltered from the worst of the inclement weather.

  Elizabeth found the capital to be a city of unexpected contrasts. Treehouses, linked by amazingly long bridges and complex pulley systems, were all sheathed in ice. Many train tracks that converged at a vast central station at the heart of the city, cutting through Medieval or Renaissance architecture. Trains bearing coal and supplies chugged past the spaceport at the eastern outskirts of the city where craft from Ardia or the other moons occasionally descended from the brittle sky. When Elizabeth stepped from the train onto the sooty slush outside of the station with her companions, she felt more strongly than ever that she was stepping into a fairy tale. Her companions, naturally, only compounded the effect. Kyko with his brilliant red plumage hopped excitedly and jabbered about trains and this magnificent station he’d always wanted to see. Fishy Laska, bundled up, strutted and shouted orders to someone nearby. Huge Sister Thorn, a bear who did not require bundling against the cold, loomed silently. And Lazaru, the mysterious simian librarian…had vanished.

  They proceeded by ox-drawn coach from the station directly to the Palace, situated on a rise near the harbor whence it overlooked both the city and the lake. The Palace had a private harbor of its own, refurbished into an arena for ice skating and related games. News of Elizabeth’s coming had spread, apparently, so that many pedestrians gawked at the coach as it passed. Elizabeth shrank back into the covered shadows, reluctant to be seen. She watched the city pass by, worn with age and endless winter. She watched the passing citizens, almost all huddled against the bitter cold. Many kinds of animals trudged through the ice; many varieties of faces turned to the steadily rolling coach with hope, or wonder, or expectation.

  Callie flowed up onto the empty seat beside Elizabeth and laid her head on her lap. Elizabeth petted her with a gloved hand.

  “There it is!” said Kyko. His excitement modulated his voice into a nearly incomprehensible chirp.

  “You will not be allowed to enter,” grumbled Sister Thorn in response. Her expression was not readable, unless a constant grim scowl truly expressed her feelings. Which seemed possible.

  “Ah…well.” Kyko tried not to show his disappointment.

  “Not at first,” Laska reassured him. “But perhaps later!”

  “Why is that?” asked Elizabeth. “I will vouch for him.”

  “I am aware,” said Sister Thorn, her voice reverberating in the coach. “And I will make that known.”

  “It is not an issue of trust,” said Laska as she leaned toward Elizabeth to whisper conspiratorially, as though anyone might be eavesdropping. “It is a matter of appearances. The Five Rings, you know. They are the real…” her filmy eyes flickered toward Sister Thorn for a moment. Laska leaned back. “He must simply be cleared.”

  Elizabeth nodded, though she had only a glimmer of understanding. The Five Rings were the major political parties vying for influence. They currently existed in a delicate deadlock of influence, both with each other and with the reigning King Basileus, who was directly affiliated with none of them. Some said that the King kept it this way through clever schemes. But the balance would not remain, for the King was very ill.

  She turned to Kyko. “You can do something for me in the meantime.” He brightened up at once and watched her with dark, beady eyes. “I need a map of the Mountain, as detailed as you can find. And look for anyone who has made it to the top, or even partway.”

  The others in the carriage came to attention. “You plan on ascending the Mountain?” asked Sister Thorn. Was she surprised? Curious? Disappointed? Elizabeth could not tell.

  “If I’m the ‘Hero of Movement,’ I may have to. Eventually.”

  Kyko gave her an awkward salute. “You may count on me, Ms. Elizabeth!”

  The coach rumbled to a halt in front of the palace, and Kyko stayed behind as Elizabeth, Callie, Laska and Sister Thorn disembarked and strode up the icy walkway beyond the frosted iron gates.

  They were admitted through the front doors into the grand entrance hall with little ceremony. “I shall inform the King of your arrival,” said a short woman with the features of a fox. “He is meeting with Lord Fair at the moment. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Making oneself comfortable would have been a daunting task in the wintery grandeur of the entrance hall, but Laska led the way to an adjacent waiting room in which a coal-stoked brazier glowed with warmth beside a gilded rolling tray of steaming tea and fresh tarts. The high windows were frosted, the floor was maple parquetry, the drapes were emblazoned with gleaming sigils.

  Someone was already here, helping himself to the tarts as Elizabeth stomped the melting slush from her boots on the entry mat. Elizabeth recognized him at once, though she just as quickly second-guessed herself. What on earth would he be doing here?

  It was an ancient cat, wrapped in a cloak as threadbare as his fur. The cat appeared hunched, arthritic, and a gnarled cane leaned against the tray from which he selected a handful of tarts with the care of a connoisseur and stuffed them away into a ragged pouch slung from a shoulder.

  “Deuteronomy?” asked Elizabeth.

  The old feline shuffled around to face them. His tufted ears twitched. He seized his cane for support as he turned from the rolling tray. In contrast to the rest of his appearance, his gray eyes were bright and clear. He closed these eyes and bowed awkwardly to Elizabeth and her companions. “Why, the Hero! It is…” His quavering voice paused for a slight cough. “…an honor.” He peeked one eye open to look at Laska. “Two heroes, in fact.”

  “Well met, Deuteronomy!” Laska bowed in return. “I haven’t seen your old whiskers around here for ages.”

  He chuckled, a sound which became a hoarse cough. “Perhaps I was inspired to travel after meeting our young heroine.” He winked at Laska.

  “Please have a seat.” Laska ushered Old Deuteronomy into a chair. He obliged and sank into one of the plush velvet chairs beside the brazier. An antimacassar draped over the chair was decorated with embroidery of cats at play. Fitting.

  The rest of them availed themselves of the tea and tarts and joined Old Deuteronomy by the warmth, though Laska regretted to inform him that they wouldn’t have time to chat. They seemed like old friends, though Elizabeth would have guessed that he had still been called ‘Old Deuteronomy’ when Laska was born.

  “We must catch up, however!” the fishy captain exclaimed. She pounded a scaly fist on the arm of her chair. “What brings you back to Dyaz? Truly?”

  “The Game, of course,” he replied with a twinkle of the eye.

  “Ah…” Laska tapped the side of her head thoughtfully. “You could never resist playing.”

  “It will soon become interesting indeed,” agreed Deuteronomy. His gaze rested on the silent Sister Thorn when he said this. He frowned down at his tea. “Other things are…afoot.”

  “Such as?” Laska leaned closer. Elizabeth felt the urge to do the same. Judging by this conversation, Old Deuteronomy was more important than she’d thought. Who was he?

  “Strange characters about,” wheezed the ancient cat, stroking his whiskers. “And it seems that a Lady of Skywater has come to join us. She will be arriving soon.”

  “Both a Lord and a Lady!” Laska exclaimed. “Marvelous!”

  Elizabeth’s phone vibrated. She checked it discreetly, listening with one ear to the others as they spoke of the Lords and Ladies. But it was not any of her friends who had contacted her, and this took her attention.

  ??: What art thou?

  ??: Coward? Fool?

  ??: Speak.

  Elizabeth looked to Callie, then to her companions. Laska and Old Deuteronomy were conversing, and Sister Thorn appeared to be listening, though those big dark eyes glanced at Elizabeth. Would it be rude to text here? Probably not. They were only relaxing, waiting for the King’s word. And she was curious.

  EE: I am Elizabeth Eddison. Who are you?

  ??: I asked not your name.

  ??: I suppose I am now the Frozen God.

  The Frozen God. Elizabeth recalled the book which lay open on her bed back at the Greenhouse. The Ten. The Frozen God was the third of the gods. Color: blue. Alternate titles: Mercykiller, the Frigid Beast. Elizabeth would not have expected such a one to have a CHIME account.

  EE: Greetings.

  FG: Soon that buffoon will contact thee.

  FG: I have questions first.

  EE: What buffoon?

  FG: Interrupt me not, human.

  EE: That is almost inevitable in a text conversation.

  FG: The buffoon I speak of is the Thunder God.

  Thunder God. Stormwalker, Great One, Immovable. Color: yellow. Elizabeth had seen his temple in Skywater, and its caretaker, Lady Chimes.

  EE: Why will the Thunder God contact me?

  FG: Henceforth I will ask the questions, hero, and thou shalt answer them.

  FG: Why is thy moon frozen?

  EE: I do not know. Perhaps because that flower will not bloom?

  FG: And what of the machine at the heart of thy moon?

  EE: The top? It is a perpetual motion machine.

  FG: And is the moving of it truly impossible?

  EE: So I have heard.

  FG: It is well, then. I would that thy moon remain in winter.

  EE: No, I think not.

  FG: No flower need bloom, nor creature such as thee strive against the inevitable.

  FG: Accept thy doom, as the weak ought.

  FG: Nay, as all ought.

  FG: The Thunder God is a fitting match for thee. Fools, thou both.

  FG: Justice is inevitability in truth. And it has no place for thee.

  Elizabeth knew not how to respond, but it seemed the Frozen God had finished. She stowed her phone, puzzled. She would ask Laska. The captain was a ‘godseeker,’ so perhaps she knew something of the Frozen God.

  But Old Deuteronomy spoke before she could ask. “I suspect the King will see you now,” he coughed. He sipped his tea and watched Elizabeth with keen eyes. “He is going to ask you to support one of the Five Rings.” He said this matter-of-factly, as though he were simply reminding her of something obvious. Laska nodded as she reached for another tart. But Elizabeth was so surprised that she nearly dropped a cup of hot tea into her lap.

  She had been warned, of course. She already knew that her status as ‘hero’ gave her influence, and that politics were thick in the air on Sisyphus. But the idea that the King would simply ask her to side with one of the five political factions…

  Sister Thorn spoke. “He wishes to ensure a smooth transition.”

  It seemed Elizabeth had underestimated just how much influence she possessed; if the King believed that her siding with one faction would prevent a conflict of succession, she would have a lot to do. It meant that she would have to learn about the Five Rings, make a decision. It meant political intrigue, which was something she had always enjoyed reading about but had never for a moment imagined she would be personally involved in. The thought startled and excited her.

  The fox-faced woman opened the door as Elizabeth considered how this revelation might affect her activities and priorities here on the Garden Moon. “The King awaits,” said the fox. They left Old Deuteronomy by the warm coals, sipping his tea. The fox led them across the pale expanse of the grand entrance hall, its crystal chandeliers crusted with frost, and down a long side hall of polished marble. Tapestries filed past on Elizabeth’s left, depicting what she took to be historical scenes of interest. She made a note to return here and ask what they meant. On the right, windows overlooked acres of frozen gardens. They would have been lovely in the summer, but even the snow and ice had been manicured, carved and arranged into a pleasing landscape.

  It was to these gardens that the fox led them. Down a wide spiral stair, out a side door, and into a collection of ice sculptures. The lake glittered as it stretched away to the distant Mountain. A storm appeared to be rolling down from the Mountain, its dark clouds spread like a flood from the heights.

  Past the carved ice, through an arch of icy hedges, and they came upon a raised gazebo, windows bright, in the midst of a wintry flower garden. The flowers retained their color, perfectly preserved as though they had been frozen solid in an instant without time enough to wither and die. Crimson, coral, saffron, cerulean—flecks of unexpected color speckled the snow and ice. Elizabeth recognized some: zinnia, lantana, hollyhocks. She could easily see how lovely all of this would be were it green and growing. Yet it had a beauty of its own, even buried in the snow.

  A splotchy trail of green picked its way to the gazebo from one side. Clusters of flowers, more recently grown and already frosted over, marked the snow at regular intervals like footsteps.

  Two guards in dark armor, wolflike in appearance, stood at attention several paces from the front of the gazebo. They saluted Laska sharply; Laska returned the salute. “He dismissed us again, Captain,” said one as they passed. It sounded like a complaint, one with a smile.

  Laska shook her head. “At least he’s with a Lord this time,” she said.

  The interior of the gazebo was cool, but not frigid like the garden outside. The windowed walls were transparent with frost, and the interior just large enough to accommodate all of them. Liz noticed these details subconsciously, for all her attention focused in on the two individuals that waited inside.

  Lord Fair took Elizabeth’s breath away. She forgot, for one long moment, where she was or why she was there. A single thought flitted through her mind like a runaway kite: not ‘fair’ as in ‘just;’ ‘fair’ as in ‘beautiful.’

  He was verdant, either caparisoned in foliage or actually made of plants. A careful inspection confirmed the latter; Lord Fair was a delicate mass of flowers and vines, leaves and moss and roots. Yet he had not been haphazardly thrown together of blossoms and twigs. Every part of him was perfect, precisely in place, exactly right. His fingers were twigs wrapped in vines, his feet were spreading mossy roots, his eyes were two flowers: gold and blue, and a galaxy of lights twinkled in their strange depths. He had flowering ivy for hair, a vibrant mossy beard, tufts of long crimson and violet grasses along his arms, patches of brilliant lichen upon the papery-white branches that grew like antlers from the crown of his head. And he smelled like every part of the outdoors world that Elizabeth had ever loved.

  Lord Fair greets the Hero of Sisyphus, and his voice is soft and subtle, a sweet breath of spring on a warm sunny breeze. He is flowers and summer, he is photosynthesis and memory, his scent is petrichor, pollen, and citrus. He bows, and his movements are as a willow branch in the wind. He would that flowers flourish here in the gazebo—and so it is. On the floor and ceiling, in traceries upon the windows, a vibrant bouquet, a blizzard of variegated petals that touch the skin like the kisses of springtime. Lord Fair plucks a singular orchid and presents it to the Hero. He speaks not, for words are of but little value to him, for they fade as the daylight, as the seasons, as every flower must, while things done remain.

  Elizabeth accepted the flower in a trance, a deep purple orchid streaked with silver and dusted with gold, grateful that Lord Fair’s peculiar mode of interaction seemed less forceful than that of the other Lords.

  As for Basileus, King of Sisyphus, whom she had heard called ‘the Old Lion,’ he was exactly that: an ancient leonine figure, wrapped in crimson robes. Though now decrepit from age and illness, lingering traces of his former legendary might remained. Elizabeth recognized him from the first tapestry she had seen in that hallway. It had shown this very king, long ago, wielding a flail in battle against some icy monster. Now he was stooped, his mane patchy and gray, but he met Elizabeth’s gaze with kind golden eyes, and those eyes were still powerful.

  “Welcome,” Basileus said. The tenor of his voice at once made her think of Old Deuteronomy. They were a matching pair, though Basileus was yet twice as large. His voice was rough, but gentle.

  They had tea, again. Possibly something to eat as well, though Elizabeth couldn’t be bothered with such details, not when occupying the same room as Lord Fair. Her eyes kept returning to him, and to the flower he had given her. The flower seemed almost to glow in her hands. It felt warm, and it smelled wonderful.

  They spoke of pleasantries and welcomes and glad wishes. Basileus hoped she was well provided for at her Greenhouse, Lord Fair was glad she had met three of his brothers already, etc, etc.

  It was Elizabeth, looking at the flower in her hands, who at last turned the conversation to more practical matters. “Lord Fair,” she said, “can you make any flower grow?”

  Lord Fair laughs, and his laughter is like the rushing of merry wind through budding branches. Can the hero truly believe it would be so easy? The End—for that is the name of the flower at the summit—will not bloom for one such as he, though he dares suppose that no other bud proves so reticent. No, the lovely hero must find her own way to make things grow.

  Elizabeth was hardly disappointed; she had expected no less. He was right. It would be far too convenient if her moon’s problem could be solved simply by sending Lord Fair up the Mountain. She glanced at him again, and the pleasing intricacies of his anatomy struck her anew just like every other of the fifty times she had done so. “I’m not like you,” she said. “How can I make things grow?”

  What is Movement? asks the Fair One.

  Elizabeth thought first of science. There was an equation, surely, though if she had learned it, she could not remember. Kate would know. There were Newton’s laws. But she discarded these as suitable answers. If Lord Fair asked ‘what is movement,’ then surely the answer was something like this: a flower blooming, green shoots breaching the soil and reaching for the sky, leaves shivering in the wind, all things growing and breathing.

  Then she remembered her dream, the one of The End, and the great mysterious cat. “Change,” she said. “Movement is change.”

  Life, says Lord Fair, a gentle correction. Not all movement is life, but all life is movement. All life is change. What is warmth? Movement, in the smallest degree. What are seasons? The same.

  Elizabeth thought she understood. She was tempted to ask whether all this—the eternal winter, the flower, the perpetual motion machine—was therefore a great extended metaphor. Eternal winter: no heat, no change, no life, no movement.

  “I am told,” she said, “that I must climb the mountain.” This was met with general agreement.

  “I am also told,” she continued, “that doing so is impossible.”

  Sister Thorn nodded solemnly just as she had to Elizabeth’s first statement, but the others hesitated.

  King Basileus coughed purposefully, drawing attention. “Things,” he declared in his old, wobbly voice, “are not clearly divided between possible and impossible.” He coughed for a moment and wrapped his heavy cloak tighter around himself. “What is impossible in one place, at one time, for one person, might be possible in another place, or at another time, or for someone else. All things change.” He paused to take a long sip of tea. “And I have found that a change of perspective can be enlightening.”

  “In that case,” she said, “may I have a moment?” (Of course, of course. She could take as much time as she required.) She excused herself for a walk about the garden.

  The chill outside refreshed her mind. The wolf-guards saluted her as she passed them and followed a path over a nearby hill. She wandered past a beautifully carved fountain full of ice, marble sea creatures of every description frolicking around its edges. Beyond this, she discovered a frozen pond. She sat on a black iron bench and looked out at the icy expanse as she allowed her thoughts to wander.

  She thought about AJ, her mother, Elmer and Amelia and the others back on Earth. She thought about her friends and herself, trapped here in this story, if ‘story’ it was. And if it was a story, what did that mean? She thought of Joan of Arc. Elizabeth had always admired her, had always thought herself too mundane for comparison. But now, maybe they weren’t so different. Save France, save the World? Chosen for a specific purpose by a higher power? Burned alive at the age of nineteen? Hopefully not that one. And Elizabeth was not at all sure that she believed in God, especially one that would allow his chosen hero to be burned alive at the age of nineteen.

  But what if this was that kind of story?

  She received a text message.

  RA: YOUR ANGEL IS A CAT?

  Elizabeth sighed. Who was this? Another god? The Frozen God had said that the Thunder God would contact her. But who was ‘RA?’

  EE: Yes.

  EE: A lynx.

  RA: MARVELOUS!

  RA: I SEE THAT YOUR KING IS A CAT AS WELL

  EE: That is fine. I like cats.

  RA: INDEED?

  RA: AS DO I

  RA: YET ANOTHER THING WE HAVE IN COMMON

  EE: Who are you?

  EE: And what do you mean by ‘yet another?’

  RA: TO YOU I AM THE THUNDER GOD

  RA: ALTHOUGH I STILL PREFER MY NAME

  RA: WHICH IS RASMUS!

  RA: AHA HA HA!

  RA: AND AS FOR THE OTHER

  RA: I BELIEVE I READ THAT YOU HAVE AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK?

  EE: Apparently.

  RA: I AM WELL ACQUAINTED WITH SUCH THINGS

  RA: SOME THINGS I HAVE DONE WERE IMPOSSIBLE UNTIL I DID THEM

  RA: WHAT IS YOUR TASK?

  EE: It seems I must make a flower grow. I must climb a mountain. I must start a perpetual motion machine.

  EE: The flower’s name is The End. I believe that the true difficulty is metaphysical in a way that I do not yet understand.

  RA: I SEE

  RA: REFUSING TO SURRENDER IS A SIMPLE THING IF YOU HAVE A REAL MOUNTAIN TO CLIMB

  RA: UNREAL MOUNTAINS ARE MORE DIFFICULT

  RA: STILL IT IS NO EXCUSE

  RA: NEVER CEASE TRYING

  RA: NEVER GIVE UP!

  Never give up. Elizabeth had heard that in a dream not long ago. A dream with a tiger and a frog. She decided to test it, repeating the words she had heard.

  EE: Endure.

  RA: YES

  EE: Overcome.

  RA: YES!

  EE: Nothing is impossible.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  RA: UNFORTUNATELY

  EE: You are the tiger, aren’t you?

  RA: I AM

  RA: HOW DID YOU KNOW?

  EE: I saw you in my dreams. You and a frog.

  RA: YOU HAVE SEEN US? BUT I DO NOT REMEMBER YOU

  EE: So what do you want? The Frozen God said you would speak to me.

  RA: SHE SPOKE TO YOU?

  EE: Yes.

  RA: AH. WELL.

  RA: OUR GREATER DESIRES SHALL EVER SUBSUME THE LESSER

  RA: SO THAT WE MAY DO ON OCCASION THAT WHICH WE DO NOT WISH TO DO

  RA: TO ACHIEVE A GREATER GOAL

  RA: I WOULD NOW THAT I HAD NOT SPOKEN TO YOU, LOVER OF CATS

  RA: THIS BECOMES DIFFICULT

  EE: What does?

  RA: MY DUTY

  RA: I AM BETRAYED BY MY SELF

  RA: SUCH IS THE WAY OF LEADERSHIP, AS SHE WARNED ME

  RA: NEVERTHELESS

  RA: THOUGH I WILL DO AS I MUST

  RA: SOMEHOW, I WISH YOU WELL, ELIZABETH EDDISON

  And that was it. Elizabeth waited for a long minute, but no more messages arrived from the Thunder God.

  “How odd,” she said, pocketing her phone with one hand while stroking Callie’s head with the other. “How is he both a god and a tiger?” Could it be a metaphor? Given that Basileus was both a lion and a king, she wouldn’t have bet on it.

  “A god and a tiger?” wheezed a voice behind her, startling her. “Please, I am neither. No need to exaggerate.” The voice laughed, and the laugh became a hoarse cough.

  Old Deuteronomy appeared, treading with care on the slippery stone path that wound about the frozen pond. Elizabeth at once rose and went to his side. She took an arm and helped him onto the ornate wrought-iron bench, though she worried the icy metal would chill him through his threadbare robes.

  “No need to fret about that,” he said with a toothy grin. “But what’s this about a god?”

  “The Thunder God,” Elizabeth explained. “He was…messaging me.” Which, now that she thought about it, seemed a very odd way for a god to communicate.

  “Thunder God?” Old Deuteronomy’s storm-gray eyes narrowed.

  “Yes.” The thought struck her that perhaps she was not so different from Joan of Arc after all. Chosen by a god. A small smile tugged at her mouth, but Old Deuteronomy did not look amused. He looked less amused than she had ever seen him. He looked grim. Given his slight frame, patchy fur, and the general suggestion that a strong breath of wind would bowl him over, this might have been comical. But it was his eyes. Something about those gray eyes…Elizabeth suddenly felt that she had seen them elsewhere.

  “Lady Chimes has come,” said Old Deuteronomy, and his voice sounded a bit stronger, healthier. “I saw Mr. Shade in the city. That isn’t supposed to happen yet.”

  Elizabeth didn’t understand this, but his tone made her stand up straight and look around to see if anyone was nearby. “Should we…tell Basileus? Lord Fair?”

  A sound came, ringing with a piercing clarity through the pale afternoon air. It was the sound of distant chimes. Elizabeth had heard it before in the ambience of Lady Chimes, though now it sounded louder.

  Deuteronomy stood. “Come,” he said, and his voice was almost unrecognizable. He hurried along the path, quick and sure over the slippery ice. Elizabeth absently picked up his abandoned cane before following.

  They crested the rise which obscured the gazebo from view. For a second, everything appeared normal. There was the gazebo, still and calm; there were the guards beyond. All quiet, all still, all wrapped in the cool blanket of winter.

  With a sound like a gong being struck directly behind her, the gazebo shattered. Every window exploded outward, and the entire structure lurched aside onto the snow as though swatted by the hand of an invisible giant. The ringing ambience of Lady Chimes vibrated through everything, through Elizabeth’s body and bones. It made her feel…crushed. Sad. Weary.

  Old Deuteronomy snarled beside her, and it was this sound that made her forever cease to think of him as ‘old.’ It wasn’t the snarl of a decrepit old cat. It was the snarl of a huge, angry beast, a sound that she felt in her teeth.

  Three figures stood in the remains of the gazebo, only thirty paces distant. Lady Chimes, tall and imposing in her obscuring cloak of dangling metal tubes. Lord Fair, a brilliant bloom of color and green in the scene, his rooty tendrils extending around him. King Basileus, small and frail in comparison to the other two, yet still standing tall. Nearby, Laska and Sister Thorn twitched like stunned creatures in the rubble of the collapsed gazebo.

  Basileus and Lord Fair faced Lady Chimes, away from Elizabeth. But Lady Chimes saw her. Elizabeth could feel the exact moment when the Lady’s eyes—or whatever she had instead—locked on to hers.

  “I am here for the Hero,” she said, and somehow her horrible whispery voice rang clearly even from thirty paces.

  “You may not have her, not against her will,” replied Basileus.

  Lord Fair is shocked, suspicious, and a bit upset at the unnecessary destruction of a fine piece of architecture. Perhaps, he wonders, Lady Chimes can explain herself. Surely there must be some misunderstanding! After all, the Ladies of Skywater are meant to aid the Heroes. And yet, Lord Fair perceives ill intent in the voice and acts and eyes (yes, eyes) of Lady Chimes. And he will not stand by, no, not he, while any dares raise a chime of violence against a Hero.

  Lord Fair wishes it to be known, and known well, and known by all, that—

  The pipe was as thick as Elizabeth’s leg and twice as long, like a vast organ pipe. It appeared from somewhere in the inner darkness of Lady Chimes’ cloak, and it flashed out with the speed of a striking snake. It caught Lord Fair directly in the chest and batted him away with enough force to unroot him from the floorboards of the gazebo and fling him aside. On the backswing, it took King Basileus in the stomach. The king sailed through the air and flopped to a halt on the snow. Lord Fair did not appear to be too badly injured. His greenery moved in such a way that for a moment his form could not be called humanoid, and he again faced Lady Chimes. But the king remained in a crumpled heap.

  Lord Fair demands that Lady Chimes desist. How dare she strike down the King of Sisyphus? Lord Fair rolls across the snow, leaving a trail of blooming flowers destined for death by frost. He comes again before Lady Chimes and obstructs her path to the hero. Lady Chimes is stronger than he, as the bear is stronger than the flower, yet there is a strength in green things that a bear has not, and Lady Chimes will know it this day.

  Lord Fair’s roots seek deep into the ground. He is not a flower; he is a tree. A mighty tree, growing to the skies, branches spreading, roots seizing, and not even the might of Lady Chimes shall escape.

  Lady Chimes dropped the organ pipe and reached out with cloaked hands to stop the rapid growth which entrapped her. She tore the roots like cotton candy; she struck the tree with such force that it splintered at the base, felling the giant with an astonishing display of raw strength. A shockwave of unsettled snow swirled around the point of impact. Lord Fair, as he plummeted, returned partway from his arboreal form.

  “I will deal with this, Lord Fair,” snarled an unfamiliar voice. “Protect the Hero.” This voice was as cold and hard as ice, as deep as the sea. It was the voice of the Mountain, and she had heard it in her dreams. It came from beside her, above her. Elizabeth turned wide eyes to look, though she knew already what she would see: a towering white cat with icy gray eyes, a feline counterpart to the beast on Jimothy’s moon that had almost killed her. Old Deuteronomy had been her guardian.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “Though you should not have known so soon. None of this should be.” He sounded angry. Terribly angry. Just as in the dream, that voice made her afraid. Not afraid for herself, for she knew just as she had then that this cat would not harm her. It was the kind of fear that came of being in the presence of something unknowably greater, a kind of fear she had never known until now.

  Lord Fair flowed up the hill in her direction, not so much running as spreading, and with him came Laska and Sister Thorn. Behind, Lady Chimes followed: slow, inexorable. But Deuteronomy stepped forward to meet her.

  Lord Fair takes her arm gently and lifts her with ease into a seat of soft leaves. Never fear, he tells Elizabeth the Hero, for he is wounded but not destroyed. Yet he has not the strength to contend with Lady Chimes. Alas! Would that Lord Fierce were present, for Lord Fair knows of but few powers equal to his, and Lady Chimes ranks not among them. Ought Elizabeth be concerned for her Guardian? Perhaps. Yet the power of the Guardians is great.

  “But why?” asked Elizabeth, shaking herself out of the strange spell of the Lords’ speech. She was indeed being carried by him, borne swiftly away from the terrible sound of chimes, yet she hadn’t really experienced herself being picked up. It had happened in third person, without her input. Unsettling, but also unimportant for the moment.

  Lord Fair shares her curiosity. What but the gods could compel a Lady of Skywater to act in such a manner? As crops flourish in the fertile soil, we—

  “The gods?” Elizabeth thought she was getting the hang of interrupting him, though it wasn’t easy. “For Lady Chimes, the Thunder God?”

  Lord Fair speaks affirmation. He stumbles for a moment, his vegetal body wounded and weakened by the Lady. Elizabeth assures him that she

  “I can…” Elizabeth paused. What…?

  She assures Lord Fair that she is unharmed and can run on her own. Lord Fair expresses his concern, yet sets her gently on

  “I’m okay. I can…run…” Elizabeth realized she was standing on the snow. Wait. Had she already said she could run? And when had he put her down?

  Lord Fair’s flowers—

  “Stop!” she shouted. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Just stop for a moment.” Whenever Lord Fair spoke, it was as though she took a back seat and watched while he narrated everything happening. God, it should be Isaac dealing with this kind of nonsense.

  “Where to?” she asked, making a point to direct her question at Laska and Sister Thorn, who waited at attention nearby, neither of them out of breath.

  “The palace,” said Laska at once. She tilted her head to indicate that very structure only fifty yards distant behind her. “The defense force is on the way. We need only keep you from Lady Chimes until she can be…” After a moment, Laska concluded with “dealt with,” though Sister Thorn helpfully suggested “killed” at the same time. Laska looked at Sister Thorn with shock, but Sister Thorn only replied, “The king is dead.”

  Lord Fair does not wish to appear rude or indelicate at this sensitive time, but

  “Let’s go,” said Elizabeth. She jogged for the palace, soon realized that she didn’t need to slow her pace for any of the others, then broke out into a full sprint through the snow. Laska, incredibly quick on her fishy legs, made it to the nearest doors two seconds before the rest of them and charged through them without hesitation.

  The rest were inside a moment later. Lord Fair slammed the door shut and sealed it by causing the polished oak to come back to life and grow together with the frame, twining roots into the stone. From what Elizabeth had just seen, such a measure would be useless against the strength of Lady Chimes, but it was still marvelous to behold.

  They had entered a wide hallway, granite floor with a lovely mosaic ceiling and a row of small ornamental objects on white pedestals set into alcoves along the far wall. Two doors lay at either end, with the door they had entered in the middle. Some kind of ribbons or streamers crisscrossed the walls, floor, and ceiling like caution-tape, white with an eerie runic writing in magenta all along its length. A group of armed individuals waited at one end of the hall, headed by a great bearlike creature who was almost an exact physical copy of Sister Thorn.

  “Representative Thorn,” said Laska. She snapped off a quick salute as she trotted toward the combat-ready group.

  “Brother Nico!” exclaimed Sister Thorn, clearly surprised, which was possibly the first clear emotion that Elizabeth had seen her display.

  Oh dear, says Lord Fair, as he observes the Chirographic Script on the streamers of parchment around the room. A scrivener. Oh dear.

  Elizabeth felt a chill of apprehension at the speech of Lord Fair, and she was beginning to ask what a scrivener was when the door at the other end of the hall burst open. It wasn’t the sound of a door simply being opened, or even being opened violently. It was the sound that happened when the door-opener wanted everyone on the other side to be absolutely clear that he or she was coming in, ready or not, and that this meant something was about to happen.

  Two figures stepped through. One appeared to be human, which would make him the first regular human Elizabeth had seen on her moon. He looked ready for a 1920s board meeting with his fine dark suit, gray-checkered necktie and pocket square, polished shoes, glittering gold pocket-watch chain, and black bowler hat. And sunglasses. And ominous smile, showing brilliant white teeth.

  The other creature loomed behind him. Its appearance reminded Elizabeth of the Ladies of Skywater, for it appeared to be cloaked in a certain material—not chains or chimes, but paper. Long, streaming strips of thick parchment cascaded down and trailed on the floor behind it, where they joined the streamers that ran around the room. All the parchment covering the creature was inscribed with that disquieting spiky runic script that Lord Fair had called Chirographic. Yet this creature was not a Lady, for it had a face, of a sort. It looked like it wore a white wooden mask, also inscribed with those runes. This creature reached out a hand as it entered the room behind the suit-wearing man, and its fingertips were sharp copper pen nibs dripping with fuschia ink, and Elizabeth realized in an instant that this must the scrivener, and that she might not be out of danger just yet.

  Callie bared her teeth at the newcomers and growled way back in her throat. She was terrified.

  “Welcome!” said the suited man. “Let’s have some introductions, then. I’m Shade.” He tipped his hat. “That’s like the tint of color, not the shadow. This is a scrivener, and we’re here representing the interests of the Dark World. That over there is Nico, the soon-to-be ruler of Sisyphus. We’ve come to an understanding.” He flashed a showy smile.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced. Shade? The one that had almost shot Eric—that Shade? Wasn’t he on Earth? No, this was a different one, the way Eric had said there were two Jacob Hollows. Deuteronomy had mentioned Shade, hadn’t he? What did she know about Shade? Able to see a few seconds into the future, vulnerable to sneak attacks with bass guitars.

  Laska laughed; it sounded genuine. She stepped toward Shade, casually positioning herself between Elizabeth and the scrivener. “Nice try, Shade,” she said. “But none of the Five Rings would stoop so low as to make a deal with you.” She drew her short swords, one in each scaly hand.

  Shade’s grin broadened. “Oh, they might. They might if the gods themselves arranged it.”

  “Stow your lies, Darkworlder,” growled Sister Thorn. “Come, Brother Nico. The King has been slain. Let us exact justice while the Hero is taken to safety.”

  “It is no lie, Sister,” said the one called Nico, his deep growl of a voice like an echo of Sister Thorn’s. Those around Nico stirred, and it suddenly seemed important to number them. Eight. “A swift and certain transition will ensure stability.”

  Sister Thorn opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Her eyes narrowed.

  Nico continued. “The alternative is a futile power struggle that will leave Sisyphus weak, open to aggression from the Dark World. With this agreement, our world remains strong, our way of life secure, and our people safe from the Dark World.”

  “And…” Sister Thorn’s voice was shaky. “What of the Hero?”

  “I’ll be taking her,” said Shade cheerfully from the other end of the room. Something about the way he said it left no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that he didn’t mean to take her alive.

  A long moment of silence. Somewhere, far away, chimes sounded together with the roar of a beast.

  “Well, you can think about it, Sister,” said Shade. “In the meantime, we must be getting on. Tight schedule, right?” He snapped his fingers. A streamer of parchment lashed out like a snake from the body of the scrivener. It wrapped around his head like a blindfold. The lettering of the disturbing script glowed a deep violet fringed with magenta, and the light raced back along the streamer to the scrivener. The papery beast lit up like a Christmas tree with that deep light. All in a moment, and this was the cue that made things happen.

  Lord Fair flowers anew, for though weak and wounded, he is yet a match for a single scrivener. He grows toward the threat like vegetation reclaiming a blackened ruin. Go, he says unto the Hero of Movement. Move indeed, ye Hero of Movement, for you are more valuable than I, and this is your story, not mine.

  Laska appeared between Elizabeth and Brother Nico, and also kept a wary eye on Sister Thorn, who still stood as though transfixed. “Go!” Laska whispered, gesturing at the nearest window. It was tall, and the glass looked thick, but Elizabeth thought she would figure something out. She ran to it, Callie at her heels. She reached out to touch the window—

  Everything went purple. Elizabeth felt a sort of impact, but not with her body. It inflicted no pain, but spiraling streams of sharp runic symbols exploded into her vision, blaring purple as though in an afterimage of a brilliant, precise light. She blinked them away, disoriented and confused. She was lying on cold stone, and Callie beside her, looking up at a mosaic ceiling crisscrossed by ribbons of parchment aglow with deep violet text. That text was difficult to look at directly. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to read it, to know what it said.

  Callie sent her a message through that peculiar new form of communication she had learned from Arcadelt: this room was locked down. Even Callie couldn’t leave.

  The sound of shouting, metal clashing against metal, distant chimes. Elizabeth rolled over and got to her knees. Everything was going wrong. In front of her, half a dozen warriors fought Laska to a standstill. Elizabeth could hardly make out what was happening in the rapid chaos of blades. Nearby, Sister Thorn and her lookalike, possibly her brother, stared each other down, neither speaking.

  In the other direction, Lord Fair was losing to the combined powers of Shade and the scrivener. He had blossomed into a small copse of limber trees, but their trunks were tangled with ribbons on paper, and the glowing purple letters burned through the wood, wringing the life from them and filling the hall with foul-scented smoke. Lord Fair groaned in pain, a sound like many trees creaking in a gale, dangerously close to toppling over. Shade stood in the back, smiling, while the scrivener did all the work. It was borrowing his ability to see the future.

  Something wrapped itself tightly around her left leg; her calf flared with a searing pain. Elizabeth cried out. Callie was there in an instant, snarling. Callie tore the strip of paper apart; the light faded from the writing. But the symbols had burned holes through Elizabeth’s pants and scorched themselves onto her leg, blackening her skin.

  More strips of paper lashed out at her. Elizabeth moved herself without understanding how she did it, from a stationary supine position to a skidding slide across the tile with no acceleration. Motionless to full motion, with no in-between and no apparent cause. Breaking Newton’s laws of motion, as Kate had said.

  The strips of paper, nevertheless, did not miss. Shade had seen where she would be. Ribbons of paper as wide as her hand, strong and heavy and burning like fire, pinned her down across her stomach.

  A silver flash appeared in the air above her before she could register the pain. Laska, blades glinting purple with reflected light in the smoky air, severed the chartaceous tentacles of the scrivener.

  Elizabeth rolled to her knees, fueled by adrenaline. Callie hissed and struggled against bindings that glowed with violet lettering. The remnants of the forces that had been battling Laska were regrouping with their wounded. An impact shook the floor as Sister Thorn engaged in a judo-like wrestling match with her counterpart.

  Lord Fair has had enough. Shall Lady Chimes come to Dyaz and murder good Basileus? Unthinkable. Shall one of the Five Rings betray the rest, and the world as well, by dealing with the Dark World? Absurd. Yet it is so. And shall the Hero of Movement, Elizabeth Eddison, be struck down here, and by a mere pawn of evil? By words less moving than her own?

  It shall not be.

  So says Lord Fair, he on whose tongue dances the green flame of truth. Watch, says Lord Fair. Listen. Read. The might of a Lord of Skywater, albeit the least of these, can yet pronounce a Negation.

  Lord Fair, aflame with the Chirographic light, flourishes in the fire. As all things become, and become again, so he grows his last, withers his last, transforms. His roots crack the stone, his branches the windows; his canopy lifts the ceiling. He embraces the scrivener and consumes the words as their fire consumes. He blooms, filling the hall with flowers bright in the cold of winter when comes the night.

  And Elizabeth Eddison flees beyond doors now unbound, unfettered by Chirographic writings. To safety she goes, for her story is not yet at an end. And the Lord of Skywater becomes as he lived: green and growing, something beautiful in a cold place. And Elizabeth Eddison hears a voice, a soft whisper of breath on the chill air, imploring her to seek the aid and protection of Lord Fierce, against whom all present foes are of no consequence.

  Elizabeth stumbled to her knees in pain and confusion. She was outside the hall, through the doors, being helped by Laska down a narrow corridor. Lord Fair had spoken, had hijacked her volition, had died to entrap and destroy the scrivener.

  “Come,” urged Laska as she pulled Elizabeth back to her feet. Elizabeth paused only long enough to make sure Callie was with them. Callie appeared wounded; this was the first time Elizabeth had ever seen her limp.

  “The defense force is arriving,” said Laska. “We’ll get you into an escape passage. You’ll be safe.”

  The corridor was narrow, wood-paneled, probably for the use of servants. Laska limped ahead of Elizabeth, red blood dripping to the floor as she went, but she didn’t deign to acknowledge the fact, and she still hurried at such a pace that Elizabeth struggled to keep up.

  “Here,” Laska said. She opened a side door into a cool, dimly lit room. Bookshelves in shadows surrounded them, extending up into dim heights. A library.

  Something clicked in the shadows, something shiny and gold. A pocket-watch, being stuffed back into the breast pocket of a suit as the man wearing it emerged from the darkness. “Right on time,” said Shade. He didn’t look quite as polished as he had minutes before in the hall. Parts of his suit were now singed, crumpled, grass-stained, and he had little pieces of smoldering vegetation on his hat and shoes. But he still had that self-satisfied smile.

  He reached for the interior of his jacket, and that was when Laska struck. She darted forward so suddenly that Elizabeth wondered if she or someone else had done the sudden-movement thing.

  Laska was almost fast enough to prevent Shade from drawing the gun. But once it was drawn, there was nothing she could do. Nowhere to run, no way to dodge or block an attack from one who could perceive every continuation of the next couple of seconds.

  Two shots. Laska fell to the carpet at Shade’s feet.

  “Now,” said Shade, turning his satisfied smile to Elizabeth.

  One time when she was young, Elizabeth had been at a church, and had seen a very old, very large lectern Bible. It had been open on display to reveal the precise calligraphic writing, and she remembered thinking that its breadth, when open, was comparable to her wingspan. She would have had difficulty picking it up.

  It was just such a book—though probably not a Bible—that fell directly on top of Shade from the shadowy heights above. Shade crumpled to the floor with a soft gasp. Elizabeth remembered what Eric had said: he could only see the future of things in his field of view.

  Lazaru dropped from the darkness. He cast a worried glance at Shade and Laska sprawled together on the floor. Shade’s hand twitched, and he moaned softly.

  Lazaru, an orangutan-like creature barely half the height of Elizabeth, motioned for her to follow before knuckling his way across the carpet. They threaded through a small maze among the bookshelves on their way to the back of the library, where it was so dark that Elizabeth could hardly see. Lazaru reached up and did something to one of the shelves. Then he dragged the shelf outward to reveal a rectangle of darkness. A secret passage.

  An electric lantern clicked to life. Lazaru presented this to Elizabeth, along with a small leather-bound book with a blank cover. She took them both, one in each hand. The librarian shoved her into the darkness and shut the door on her before she could think of a reply.

  Callie mewed softly. “Shh, it’s all right,” whispered Elizabeth. She put a hand on Callie’s head. She took a deep breath. No time to think about it now, she told herself. Just go.

  She raised the lantern, saw a descending staircase. As quickly as possible, she limped down. After a flight or two, it leveled out into a stone hallway that stretched into the dark unknown. Her breath misted in the air in front of her. She shivered, wrapped her coat around her. After a moment, she drew the medallion from its strap around her neck, and with a bit of concentration she made a thick parka appear around her.

  She didn’t feel up to running, as the leg which had been caught by the scrivener burned with pain, but she limped as quickly as she could. After a minute of travel, she heard the distant sound of gunshots behind her.

  She fell into a daze, but pushed on through the pain and the sudden sense of exhaustion. She had to keep going, that was all. As quickly as possible. Her mind blanked, shutting out thought.

  She snapped out of it when she came to the end of the tunnel. A ladder led up into more shadows. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, reminding her that she had friends out there, friends who would help her if they could.

  But it was not her friends she saw when she checked the message.

  FG: Thou cannot hide thyself from us, hero.

  Elizabeth slowly replaced the phone, feeling cold even through the parka.

  A grating sound overhead, loud and startling in the cold silence of the tunnel, made her flinch back. She raised the lantern in an effort to see into the gloom.

  A crescent of light appeared, slowly widening into a gibbous aperture that seemed terribly bright after the dim tunnel. Someone up there grunted with effort. A shadow appeared against the light, some twenty feet up. It had a beak.

  “Elizabeth?” said Kyko. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” she said, embarrassed by how weak and scared her voice sounded.

  “Oh, thank goodness! What happened at the palace? It’s chaos up here!”

  You cannot hide from us, hero. “Kyko,” she said, “how did you find me?”

  “You won’t believe this,” he said with excitement, “but I got a message from someone saying you were in trouble! They told me to come here!”

  Elizabeth took a small step back into the tunnel. She felt a deep welling of panic, the urge to run. But run where? Back to the library? To Shade? She suddenly remembered the book in her hand. She had never let it go, and her fingers were stiff from gripping it.

  “Oh! And look who I found!” Kyko disappeared for a moment and returned with another figure outlined against the light. “It’s Old Deuteronomy!”

  “Come up, Hero,” said Deuteronomy in his shaky, elderly, phony voice.

  She hesitated. He had protected her from Lady Chimes. He had spoken to Lord Fair as though they were on the same side. But he was a Guardian, right? Jimothy’s guardian had tried to kill her. Eric’s guardian was an evil dragon.

  Callie nudged her. It’s all right, she said. We have to go.

  Elizabeth clicked off the lantern and set it on the floor. She pocketed the book and put a hand on the frigid iron rungs of the ladder.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, meaning Deuteronomy.

  “Oh, I’m fine!” replied Kyko.

  “I have been better,” said Deuteronomy with a hoarse chuckle. “But my purpose was served. And now…we must go.”

  She reached the top and accepted Kyko’s clawed hand. “Put it back,” said Deuteronomy, stooping to the manhole cover.

  “Please, let me,” insisted Kyko. His obvious concern for the old cat made Elizabeth certain that he had no idea about Deuteronomy’s true identity. Kyko struggled to slide the cover back into place.

  They stood in an alley between brick buildings. The evening light from the Bright World lit the clouds overhead like frosting. A handful of pedestrians wandered the street twenty yards distant.

  “Come,” said Deuteronomy, and for a moment his acting slipped. His voice modulated into a deeper, stronger register. Elizabeth might not have noticed if she hadn’t been listening for it. “I have called us a car.”

  The car was a hovercraft, and it spread the powdery snow beneath it in swirls as it coasted to a halt at the entrance to the alley, drawing some attention from passersby. Elizabeth, Callie, and Kyko piled into the back, while Deuteronomy took the front seat beside the driver. The driver appeared to be a robot, though one fashioned with the features of a crane. “To the spaceport,” said Deuteronomy.

  “You’re hurt!” Kyko exclaimed as though he had just noticed. “What happened at the palace? Why is it on fire? Why is there a huge tree growing out of it? Where are the others—Laska and Sister Thorn? Did you meet Basileus?”

  Elizabeth looked down at herself. Her parka was why Kyko had not immediately noticed that she was injured. It covered the burn scars. As for herself, she could not forget it. Her leg hurt the worst, but the violet letters had scorched her stomach too, crawling with pain.

  And suddenly, it struck her that for the moment, she was safe. She was with Kyko and Deuteronomy, and Callie, and they were speeding away from the palace, away from Shade and Lady Chimes and the traitorous Brother Nico, and all the dead people who had been living people right next to her what seemed only moments before. The kindly King, the beautiful Lord, loyal Laska. Possibly Sister Thorn and the librarian, Lazaru.

  Kyko’s eyes widened in horror. “What’s wrong?”

  She was crying. She tried not to. She wiped the tears away, but they wouldn’t stop. Callie jumped partway up onto her, and Elizabeth hugged her tight with both arms, burying her face in the soft white fur.

  “Elizabeth,” said Kyko, “Why—”

  “Leave her be,” said Deuteronomy from the front seat. His voice, though still old, held a quality that did not permit refusal. Kyko quieted.

  “No,” said Elizabeth through her efforts to choke back sobs. “Not the spaceport. My greenhouse.”

  “But—”

  “My greenhouse,” she repeated.

  After a moment, Deuteronomy consented. “Ah, I see. Very well.”

  From the spaceport she would have to take a spacecraft to get to another place, a safe place. It would take time. Meanwhile, her friends might be in similar danger. She had two doors on top of her greenhouse. One opened onto nothing. But the other opened onto Hyperion.