Every landing was crowded with people, save one. The pilot nudged them ahead, and the little gangway was dropped and secured to the weather-stripped wood. Citizens were hanging on the various ropes above, and they jammed the walkways. But only three people occupied the landing. Two of the strangers remained near the ladder. A woman was standing alone in front of the curtain, two women’s faces watching the world, and as his parents walked Diamond down the gangway, each said, “This is our Archon.”

Their voices were the same, quiet and respectful.

Prima was smaller than Diamond imagined, and younger. She stared at him as if one hard look would answer every mystery. But nothing was answered, so she turned to the face that she knew best. “Merit,” said the Archon. “We haven’t seen each other since when? The Festival of Lasts, wasn’t it?”

“Something in that order. Yes, madam.”

“And it’s been too long, Haddi. How are you holding up?”

“Well enough,” Mother said.

The short woman bent lower. An adult who had no children, she was both too formal and too eager to be a friend. Her smile was brilliant. She spoke with a voice accustomed to being listened to. “So. So you are the famous Diamond.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A buzz of voices fell from above.

Diamond looked up at the staring faces, and his Archon dropped to a knee, saying, “It’s been a storm of rumors, I’m afraid. Your father’s crew talked, and my staff said too much, and now every call line in the District is busy. And do you know what people are saying? The kinder voices, I mean. They are saying that you are some great gift from the Creators, and today you bested the big Archon, and you have magical powers, and by the way, you turned the flagship into torn cloth and scrap metal.”

Diamond didn’t know how to react.

“A quiet boy,” she judged. Then she stood, waving for her assistants to approach.

The Master and other children joined the group.

“There are some weighty legal questions,” Prima told everyone. “But the best course, from what I can see, is that my office and my good word grant you asylum from other claims. So long as you stay inside the Corona District, you are my guest. You are protected and free, and let’s let the lawyers fight the rest of the battles for us. Does that sound like a reasonable strategy?”

Diamond didn’t know whether to nod or not. He decided to turn to his mother, asking, “May I go inside? I’m tired.”

His parents laughed, their exhaustion easy to see.

The Archon made the decision. Backing away, she told everyone, “Diamond wants to finish his journey home. Let’s allow him, please.”

Diamond walked.

His parents and Nissim stayed behind, discussing abstract matters of state and law and simple decency.

Seldom and Elata fell in beside the boy, each asking if he or she could see him tomorrow.

“Maybe,” he started to say.

A rough voice interrupted. From his perch on the railing, the orange-headed monkey shouted, “Good.”

One of the assistants took it as his duty to shoo the animal away. But Diamond said, “No, please, leave him alone.”

“He’s yours?” the man asked doubtfully.

“I’m his,” Diamond answered. He gave Good the finger that was bit off once, and the monkey looked at it and at him and then cackled wildly. Then both walked to the curtain, and Diamond turned, telling Seldom and Elata, “Come by after school.”

They nodded and giggled.

Good and then Diamond entered the otherwise empty house, walking the hall by the long way around, passing rooms that the boy had never entered and slipping through a kitchen that desperately needed to be cleaned. The side hallway to his open door seemed far too short, and his room was too small for either of them. Diamond left the door open. The monkey casually shoved the papio books off their high shelf and started to build a nest with shredded pieces of an old blanket, looking nothing but happy.

Diamond left him to his work. Shoving Mister Mister under his arm, he crawled to the tiny chamber with its locked drawers and rounded walls. He didn’t expect to find a secret door waiting. But he was ready to find that door wherever he looked, and in the end that might be what his day meant.

Diamond was ready, and he always needed be.

END BOOK ONE

BOOK TWO

THE CORONA’S CHILDREN

PROLOGUE

Every soldier is born from wood—the finely grained wood of a tantalize tree carved and polished until the faces and strong arms and an array of dangerous weapons have been revealed. Every soldier wears paint and time. Each stands where he is set, a willing part of the colorful army that obeys every command. The soldiers never suffer fear, never know doubt, and despite similarities in appearance, each wears a unique name that serves as the trusted root from which one great life dangles.

The boy gave the wood their names and life stories. One glance, even a slow touch, is enough to recognize each good soldier.

The boy always knows where his army waits—on high shelves or inside their special box. Of course the soldiers aren’t waiting. Toys are objects, and objects are too simple to hold souls. But playing with the wooden men is more fun because it means nothing. Almost every day of his life holds games like these. His fierce legion battles bigger toys and pretend monsters. Each piece of painted wood is awarded its turn as hero. Then as the boy grows older and a little smarter about the world, he makes larger wars, and his voice is louder, filling his very big room with fury and brutality until sometimes the game goes too well and he makes himself afraid.

Like other children, he climbs to school to learn and tries to be normal, and then he climbs home again and plays games.

The warriors lie scattered across the floor, on their backs and bellies, yet they are beautifully unable to concede defeat.

Wood cannot breathe, cannot weep, cannot stand back from the carnage and wonder where the battle went wrong.

“It’s your game,” says Mother. “If you don’t like the results, pick up the pieces and start again.”

“But these are the dead.” He tries to be patient, except that he doesn’t sound patient. Pointing to the casualties, he explains, “They have to rest all night to be alive again. Those are the rules.”

Every game has rules. Life and the Creation have rules. Maybe there are agents somewhere that don’t obey the hard codes, but thinking that way invites a different kind of fear into the mind.

“It’s time for your early dinner,” his mother says, trying to make him stop.

Dinner isn’t ready. But he sets the dead inside their anglewood box, waiting to live, and the survivors stand on the shelves with a view of the green outdoors, helping watch for Father. The boy moves to the kitchen, sitting on the counter while his mother cooks and cools the various parts of the meal. Eating is a great pleasure. Nobody in their household eats like him. He loves sitting with his long legs dangling, talking about school and friends and what special things happened in the day, and when Father isn’t home, the boy always asks when he will be.

Father used to be gone overnight, but that has changed.

Quite a lot is different now.

Mother laughs as she cooks. Vents pull the odors outside, and an orange-headed monkey is drawn by the smells, walking past the front curtain and through the house door, ready to eat.

The monkey owns the boy.

That is the way the world looks to the monkey. His name is Good, and he is smarter and nicer than most orange-heads. But he isn’t much nicer. Jumping up on the counter, he tells the boy, “Move.”