Yes, he thought, another choice.

But was it really? The compass within him pointed squarely in one direction, and it frightened him how easily he read it, knowing full well the cost and risk. In the end it wasn’t really a choice at all, he realized.

He felt his jawline tightening with resolve even as he spoke the words again.

“We follow them,” Rudolfo said, and this time his voice was firm and commanding.

Then he returned belowdecks to sharpen his knives and ponder what they might find at the heart of this newest Whymer Maze.

Neb

Days blurred past Neb, his waking hours filled with the smell of burnt earth and stone and the steady sound of his feet slapping ground in an endless race across the Wastes. The nights were shorter now as they tried to make up distance, sleeping for a handful of hours and running before the sun rose. The landscape and the full moon seemed to accommodate them, but Neb secretly wondered if he was simply getting good enough at running the uneven terrain that Renard’s concerns about the dark were lessening. He had no doubt that the lean Waster had run plenty of moonless nights in times past.

Regardless, they ran more and his muscles no longer ached from it. The farther in they ran, the warmer the climate grew until he was peeling away layers of clothing and letting the sun bake his skin to a dirty bronze color.

They’d turned south from Rufello’s Cave, running until they were within sight of the expansive salt dunes that marked the southernmost shore. Then, they cut east and continued on Isaak’s trail.

During the days, they ran in silence unless Renard pointed out something of note along the way. At night, exhausted from the run, they ate whatever Renard found on the hunt, if there was wood for a fire. If not, they went without meat and relied upon their scout rations. Neb took advantage of the time to watch and study. He’d already learned where to find pockets of bitter water hidden beneath the veneer of desolation and had learned a half dozen ways to extract it and treat it to strip any madness or disease from it. He’d learned where to find bits of root and bramble that could sustain him and how to harvest the black root they chewed throughout the day should he find himself stranded and out of the powerful earth magick.

And he realized he learned differently now. What had once been best passed to him through books, Neb now easily retained just from watching it done. He wasn’t sure why, but the Waste called strength out in him that he’d never experienced before. His mind was focused, clear and calm. His body felt like a lute coming into tune, and his sleep, dreamless and deep, was more restful than any he’d ever known.

This place is changing me, and I like what I am becoming. He felt the truth of the thought. Yet, in the corner of his heart, he remembered Winters and it wrenched him.

They ran and ran, and on the fourth night since they left Rufello’s Cave, they stopped at the edge of a chasm that, according to Renard, divided the continent. Nightfall had already swallowed the deep canyon, but looking south from the edge of it, Neb saw what he thought might be the wide and dangerous sea east of the horn-haunted waters the first settlers referred to as the Ghosting Crests. Neb had heard tell of secret Androfrancine-financed voyages around the horn, but these were largely apocryphal. Though reason dictated that such a crossing was possible, history was replete with tales of vessels lost in those waters to the ghosts that swam them.

Renard turned north, and Neb followed him. By the time the sun vanished entirely and the moon rose, they reached a high, arching bridge that spanned the gap. Blue and green light reflected from it.

They slowed and stopped at the base of it.

“It’s said that one of the Younger Gods was awakened by Y’Zir’s spell when it broke the world open again. They say he placed this bridge to aid those few survivors that they might find their way west.” His voice deepened to nearly a growl. “At least until the Androfrancines manned the Wall and stopped the gate shut but for their own interests.”

It was the first time Neb had heard bitterness in the man’s voice. He noted it but said nothing. Instead, he nodded to the bridge ahead. “How long ago did they pass this way?”

Renard smiled. “Hours. if that. We’re close again.”

Neb nodded, and they set out at a run. They’d crested the apex of the bridge when they heard strange sounds from the east and below. They slowed, and Renard brought out his thorn rifle, walking a few paces ahead of Neb. As they drew closer to the noise, they saw the dim amber glow of glass eyes fluttering below them and heard the wheezing of bellows. Reedy, metallic voices met their ears.

“You must listen to reason, Cousin, and turn back with your colleagues now,” the first voice said. “You are not authorized to travel beyond this geographical point. Message follows: Under holy unction I declare the lands beyond D’Anjite’s Bridge closed, under seal and signet, Introspect III, Holy See of the Androfrancine Order and Seated King of Windwir.” The voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

Neb blinked into the darkness and saw their dim outlines at the far edge of the bridge. The moonlight wasn’t such that he could pick them out easily, but it was obvious that the fleeing metal man fled no more. Feet planted firmly on the far side of the chasm, it stood and faced Isaak where he stood upon the last of the bridge.

Neb and Renard crouched on the bridge. He felt the night wind move over the back of his neck, raising gooseflesh.

Isaak’s voice was calm and measured. “Pope Introspect is no longer in power. The Order returned to Pope Petronus’s care when Windwir fell-before its eventual dissolution seven months, two weeks and three days ago.”

“That is not possible; Pope Petronus is dead. Without a counter-manding order from Introspect or his named successor, I may not let you pass.”

Neb didn’t realize he was rising to his feet until he felt Renard’s hand clamp onto his arm. He shrugged it away, suddenly sure of himself. He raised his own voice. “Petronus is not dead; I declared him myself on the plains of Windwir. You yourself claimed to bear him a message. The holdings of the Order have been passed to the Ninefold Forest-all holdings-including the Order’s mechanicals.” He took another step forward, willing authority in his voice, reaching back to the brief months he’d commanded the gravediggers’ army. “I am an officer of the Ninefold Forest Houses and the Great Library reconstructed therein.” More steps now. “I order you to escort us to Sanctorum Lux immediately that the holdings may be cataloged for the new library.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t what happened next. The metal man’s eyes fluttered open and closed, its mouth flap working as steam whistled out suddenly from the exhaust grate in its back.

And then, the metal man laughed.

It was a loud, long, wheezing laugh that rolled up and down the canyon, haunting the night with its eerie, metallic sound. “Nebios ben Hebda,” it said, “you are early for your time here. Do not be so eager for the gift you cannot give back.”

Gift you cannot give back. It was from the first Gospel of P’Andro Whym, and he conjured the words up from the bottom of his memory.

And it came to pass on the night of the Purging that P’Andro Whym wept with his closest lieutenants for the work that they had done and turned his eyes upon them and said unto them “Behold our duty to the light is this night begun, and it shall be a gift that cannot be given back and the last path we shall follow in this land.

Neb’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of duty to the light; we do not choose it. We are called to it.” He stepped farther forward. “Isaak, are you well?”

Isaak turned and nodded. “I am well, Nebios. My chassis and bellows are in need of cleaning.”