Then the Graith will consider my proposal?

“No.”

Perhaps you yourselves will make the trade that I proposed—will guide me to a fresh world in return for what I have learned?

“No.”

Will you aid me against the godhaters who would enter this temple and slay me?

“No.”

Then why have you come?

“To learn what you know of the dying sun.”

You ask everything; you offer nothing. We will reach no agreement on these terms, Ambrosius.

“We’ll save the world, if we can. If you are in the world, that’s not nothing.”

If the world could have been saved, I would have saved it. I am not called the God here for no reason.

“But you are not, in fact, God,” Morlock pointed out. “We may be able to do what you can’t.”

Doubtful.

“We destroyed the Two Powers.”

They are worshipped still in Vakhnhal and through the Anhikh Kômos. Their missionaries walk west and south and north. For all I know, their apostles sail to Qajqapca.

“You see through countless eyes. Have you seen the Two Powers since they nailed you here?”

The dragon’s tail moved restlessly across his hoard. No, he admitted at last.

“Then?”

No! Nothing for nothing! That’s my law, Ambrosius.

“If the world dies, you will die and all your knowledge will be lost.”

You can’t save the world. Old Ambrosius could not. I cannot. No one can.

“Convince us.”

Nothing for nothing.

Outside the temple, Danadhar was speaking to the crowd. They could hear no words, but they did hear the thunder of the crowd’s response; it shook the pillars of the temple.

“I think your time here is done, Rulgân Silverfoot,” Morlock said. “Where will you spend the last days of the dying world?”

The dragon snarled.

Morlock waited.

Deor almost spoke, but Ambrosia caught his eye and shook her head.

Nothing for nothing! the dragon said. If I tell you what you want to know, will you help me escape from here?

Morlock considered briefly. “Yes,” he said.

The dragon submerged his snout in gold and grumbled a bit. Then he raised up his face and said, Agreed. I will self-bind to tell you what I know. You will self-bind to assist me to escape, if there is any trouble. There is going to be trouble, from what I see out in the town square.

“No binding magics,” Morlock said. “You’ll have to trust me.”

The dragon glared and lashed his tail, sending gold coins skittering around the temple chamber. Morlock looked Rulgân in the eye and waited.

Agreed! the dragon rumbled at last.

“Then.”

The dragon spoke.

Ambrosius, when last you saw me I was very new in my godhood. I could use the temple of the mandrakes to see through their eyes and ears, but I could not control their wills. Nor can I always do so now. I must lure a mandrake into surrendering its will to mine, a long, tedious business sometimes. The first was Skellar, who you may remember as god-speaker here on your last visit. He walked abroad, servile to my will, unable to live as a mandrake or be reborn as a dragon.

It amused me to send him to places he hated to go. For instance, he feared water, so I made him swim across the Sea of Stones. He feared the Little Cousins, so I sent him as my emissary to the Endless Empire under the Blackthorns. And he feared the cold, so I sent him north to the end of the world.

His eyes were my eyes, and his ears were my ears, but his pain was not my pain. I left him will enough to seek his own survival when threatened, but not enough to resist my commands. He spent some time in the city of werewolves, Wuruyaaria; you would be amused to hear his adventures there, perhaps. But the geas I placed on him drove him ever further north, through the grim, bright rind of the world where beasts become strange, until he stood at the furthest point north where a beast with two feet may walk; beyond was only sky, blue emptiness like Merlin’s eyes.

There is a bridgehead there, where the world ends, and the bridge runs through the sky into another world. Standing on the bridge was a thing that had neither hands nor feet nor body nor anything that could be seen. But it was there: Skellar felt the imprint of its angular intelligence on his own.

He stood there for a long time, void of purpose. I had told him to go north but had not said what he should do when there.

The presence on the bridge spun a mouth made of ice in the middle air. It used the mouth to say, “Why are you here?”

“I was sent,” Skellar answered.

“Who sent you?”

“God.”

“Which god?”

“The God.”

“Was it one of the Two Powers?”

Skellar hesitated. “No.”

“The-one-you-would-call-I,” said the thing on the bridgehead, “senses an association. Is the God who sent you the Balancer?”

Skellar thought. It was difficult for him because I had not allowed him to do much of this since I took him over. “I don’t know,” he said after a time—a great deal of time, it seemed to me, when I assimilated his memories.

“Is your God akin to the Two Powers?”

Now Skellar thought of the day when I came to his town, and the miracles the Two Powers worked on my behalf, and how he helped them install me in the temple. So he said, “Yes.”

“You are to report to whom-you-would-call-me,” the presence said.

“I don’t understand,” Skellar said.

The presence seized his mind, broke it open like the seal on a message, and read it.

That was when I noticed what was happening. You cannot always be looking out of every pair of eyes available to you—not when you have as many of them as I do. But the presence now touched the bond that pertained between me and my mandrake.

“Who are you?” the presence said to me, through Skellar.

I took the time I needed to assimilate Skellar’s memories. The presence waited: they have no impatience, these things—no real sense of time.

“I am the one true God of the mandrakes,” I said. “Who are you?”

“You would not understand the-one-you-call-me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would call the-one-you-would-call-me me.”

“That appears to me to be nonsense, and I require the services of my mandrake.”

It tried to seize control of my will through the bond, but I was ware of it and resisted. We fought much of a day and night in the arena of Skellar’s mind: I watched the shadows change, grow, diminish, change.

In the end it seized Skellar’s mind and dragged it from his body, over the edge of the world and across the bridge that spans the abyss.

I let the bond persist. Why not? Skellar would not be much use anymore, even if he lived, so the knowledge I gained from his suffering would be the last yield I could expect from him.

I can’t tell you how much time passed, since beyond the barrier of the world I found neither sun nor moons nor stars nor anything that I could understand as marking time or change.

There are no people there. I soon understood this. Each of these presences was the same as the other—like different coins, from different places, different writing on them, but all the same, too: stack them one on another and you cannot tell one from the other.

The presence who had taken Skellar and me dragged us to a place where several other presences were. They merged or conferred or something. Now it was the same presence, but more forceful, with more knowledge. They gathered other pieces, apparently at random, and the presence grew.