Death was no mystery to a smart man like him.

His grief—the deep ache in his bones—was the irreparable loss of his fine, well-deserved life. Each day used to hold the promise of new women and the familiar blackwood tree and the sounds of being outside and the feel of wind and the endless easy joy that came with pissing into the morning sun. But this new life was lived indoors, more than not. And what was outside was not a happy realm for his kind.

The two-mouthed giant was a frequent visitor. He was called the man-boy’s brother, except he looked and smelled like nothing else in the world. People plainly did not understand what the word “brother” meant, which showed how stupid they were. But a creature like him might make a good companion for the man. One day the giant came to the boy’s room. He wanted to talk about the sister that nobody else ever saw. It was just the two of them and the tiny man with the fine old beard and the deep wise eyes, and that seemed like a good time to climb onto one of those slick armored shoulders, biting the first fingers that reached up to brush him aside.

The man’s meaning was misinterpreted.

Thrown into the hallway, he decided to never try to claim any giant for himself. They weren’t worth the bother.

A second door stood across from the boy’s room. The door was closed, as usual, but it wasn’t locked that day.

He eased the door open and peered inside.

The boy’s mother was sitting on the edge of her bed. She had always been old, but she was badly hurt before coming here and she seemed much older now. Her wounds had healed, but what remained was tired and quiet. She often slept longer than anyone else, including her sad son, but she was awake just then, dressed and sitting on her bed, looking at the floor in the same staring fashion that he used during the longest nights.

Something in her posture and her eyes touched the little man.

He approached slowly.

The woman had never approved of him. Never once had she shown him more than grudging tolerance. But when she saw his face, she said, “Hello.”

She didn’t smile, but her expression wasn’t as sorrowful.

“Haddi,” he said.

That was her name.

“Good,” she said.

That wasn’t his name. The boy heard him say that word several times, and he misunderstood its meaning. “Good” meant good, nothing more, and his true name could only be spoken by the tongue of orange-headed men.

Once again, he said, “Haddi.”

She thought of making the man leave. He could tell from her mouth and how the eyes got cold for a moment.

Without words, he jumped up on the bed, avoiding her reach while starting to pull gently at the softest blanket. Maybe if he were quiet and careful, she wouldn’t notice his presence.

The old woman decided to say nothing about the interruption.

She stood slowly and did nothing, deciding what to do. Then she walked to a big box filled with little boxes. On top of the big box was a picture of her dead husband. The clearest, brightest pictures of Merit were lost with their home, but the very important man who lived down the hallways had found this picture. He had brought it to Haddi as a gift, and despite its age and the yellowing paper, she had squeezed the picture under glass surrounded by a frame.

The orange-headed man understood pictures, and better than some of his kind, he respected the magic people saw in such things.

“Sad face,” he said.

Haddi didn’t react. She didn’t seem to hear him. But she picked up the frame, pulling the dust off with a fingertip, and then turning to him, she quietly asked, “Are you tired?”

It was still morning, and he was making a nest in her bed. Yes, he was tired, and saying so wouldn’t lighten his burdens.

Haddi opened her mouth, golden teeth glowing. Something less than a smile broke out, and she asked him, “Do you ever think about our old tree?”

There were more important matters to think about than one lost tree. But the little man didn’t have the energy or focus to explain even a portion of his busy mind. Instead he made one small and very mournful sound, hunkering down against the blanket, wishing for the chance to nap.

“All right,” she said.

What did she mean?

“You can sleep here,” she said. Then she gave both of them a good lie, saying, “Sleep here, but we’re never going to be friends.”

The past was jammed with lost belongings.

Diamond’s father was trapped inside unreachable days. The boy’s old room and simple bed and Mister Mister and all of the loyal lifeless soldiers were trapped there too. He used to be surrounded by trusted faces, and other people had been polite to him and often friendly, and the days were generally pleasant, and life pretended to be as stable and strong as a giant blackwood.

Any other child would be within his rights to cry about all that was gone.

But what Diamond missed as much as anything was an idea—the wrong silly stupid idea—that he was ill.

There were moments when he remembered being the weak child, a fragile little shadow of a boy who was sure to die any time, and he clung to that memory, wishing it could be true again.

But death wanted nothing to do with Diamond.

Even worse, an unbreakable brain lived inside his human-shaped skull, and that brain was powerful by any measure.

Waking in the middle of the night, normal people forgot sometimes where they were and who they were with.

Diamond always knew where he was and that he was alone.

Tonight he was lying at the edge of a giant bed. He was awake for a long while before opening his eyes, and then he looked across the room. Little splashes of light huddled near the door. Otherwise the vast space was filled with inky darkness. Good was sleeping soundly in Mother’s room. When Diamond sat up, nobody noticed.

He sat up and rubbed at what his dream had done to him, and he stared at the dream, which was as ordinary and empty as any that he had ever experienced. He was standing inside the Archon’s quarters with the faraway ceilings and the magnificent furnishings. List, the Archon, was standing beside King, the two of them discussing the war’s progress. Nobody else was present. Every phrase had been yanked from overheard conversations. Battles that would win the war were about to happen. Except of course those battles had come and gone and nothing had changed. Every military ship named in these plans had been destroyed long ago. List and his son were firing giant bombs that didn’t exist anymore. They were going to scorch papio cities that were already left as ashes. Key trees and installations had to be defended, except all of them had fallen into the sun hundreds of days ago. And most remarkably, father and son spoke as if they were generals, as if they had any genuine role in the endless waging of war.

Everybody in that dream was trapped in the past, and nobody knew it.

Diamond quit rubbing himself. A fancy metronome stood on the table beside the bed. Touch the button and it glowed inside. Even if this was a short night, the night was young. Why was he awake? Putting his bare feet against the fur-covered floor, Diamond shut his eyes again, listening intently. Eventually one sharp blast found him, followed by a bigger explosion that came rolling in from the same direction, passing through the room before hurrying across the darkened world.

The war wanted to be noticed.

The war was an angry baby that screamed loudest when it was ignored.

Diamond dressed in yesterday’s clothes. His room’s main door opened with a touch, and he stepped into the hallway. A sentry was at the end of the hallway, guarding List’s door. There was just enough light that the sentry could watch a boy cross to the toilet. No rules were being broken. Nothing needed to be said. Other guards were nearby, but the rooms and passageways were designed to keep most of their protectors out of sight. What passed for home was a self-contained space buried inside the Archon’s ancient palace. Only three routes led inside and out again, and each of those doors was kept locked. Home was a hard-shelled seed tucked in the middle of a giant fruit. The palace was the fruit wrapped inside a fortune in corona scales, but this interior house sported its own layers of scales and skin as well as cunningly hidden sacks filled with water—a stopgap means to frustrate the fire bombs that still hadn’t managed to come this far.