Ghentun knew he had to act. He had to put a humane end to this experiment—make one last attempt to fulfill the task he had been given, ages before; whatever the Eidolons wished, and however they debated the nature of the end of time.

The Keeper was only vaguely aware that he might be the last weapon in the City Prince’s arsenal.

CHAPTER 42

The Tiers

For the sake of Grayne, the Shaper joined Ghentun and did what she almost never did—she left the crèche.

They came invisibly upon the old breed in her niche and stood over her while she slept. The Shaper was obviously pleased that Grayne was still capable of dreaming, despite all interference. These breeds were strong with dream. She knelt and applied broad, smooth fingers to Grayne’s forehead, then said, “Tell us who will be best for this last march, and who will be best for a journey to the Broken Tower.”

Grayne did not need to speak to answer.

The Shaper released her, and Ghentun stepped forward. “Her chosen pair seem smart. She’s always been a good judge.”

“A breeding pair?”

“They haven’t discovered that yet.”

“Would it be wise to separate a breeding pair?” Ghentun asked rhetorically. The Shaper did not bother to acknowledge there was a question. It was not her place to render such opinions, and never would be, thank the city. She merely shaped—she did not ponder overmuch.

“They’ve searched the deserted Tiers for their books, as always,” the Shaper said. “She steered them toward those shelves that tend to repeat the tales of Sangmer and Ishanaxade. Separated lovers…”

“Can you tell what she’s dreaming?” Ghentun asked.

“Oh, I’ve known that for an age,” the Shaper said. “All the trainers share the same dream, since the first batch. She’s dreaming she’s part of a group of ancient females—in the Brightness, apparently. Details obscure, of course, but they seem to seek out talented youngsters, just as she and her sisters have done.”

The Shaper touched Grayne again and murmured, “Pity to lose her, after so many challenges. A favorite.”

Grayne twitched. Her face betrayed a secret anxiety, not in the least connected with their presence. Ghentun closed his eyes. “Then I know her,” he said.

The Shaper could not suppress allcuriosity. He looked back at Ghentun. “How? Are you dreaming as well, Keeper?”

“Retrieve the trainer’s books.”

The Shaper paused, looking down on the old breed. Then she reached for the trunk, opened the finger-lock latch, and removed all the books—five of them. They stacked easily in the Shaper’s many arms. “Let’s not wake her,” the Shaper said. “Such a loss would be exquisitely painful to her. Not that I’m sentimental.”

They backed out of the sama’s niche. A Bleak Warden entered, slow and silent. It settled to spread its folds over Grayne, and with a slight stir, before she could open her eyes, she was no more. A mercy, considering what was soon to come.

“Bring me the male,” Ghentun said.

“And the female?”

“She will march. Pick others—friends, if they have any. Complete the sama’s travel group however you can, and speed their training.”

CHAPTER 43

The sound began low and heavy—a bass hum that vibrated the walls of Tiadba’s niche. Jebrassy opened his eyes and twitched an arm, knocking one of the precious books off the sleeping pad. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Tiadba’s soft, steady breath—sweet and soothing. But the bed next to him was empty.

He sat upright, listening, and thought that the thumping might come from Tiadba moving around. Where was she?

But the sound was much too loud. It felt as if the Tiers themselves were shivering apart. He pulled on his curtus and stumbled over the scattered bedclothes to the door, which had opened halfway and seemed to have stuck. Somehow, that frightened him more than the sound, which grew even louder.

The shaking made it difficult to stay on his feet.

Over the deep rumble came another sound, no less frightening but higher-pitched—wailing and shrieking, like creatures in horrible pain.

He squeezed through the opening and fell to his knees in the corridor. His hand nearly touched a deep, greasy blackness spreading along the floor of the hall like a hole cut into the substance of the Tiers—and growing. His eyes tried to focus on what had fallen into the hole—a fleeting impression of blurs that might have been two or more breeds, trying to swim against the blackness—and then something grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around.

A huge warden nearly filled the hallway, its wings folded, strong, hard arms extended, one clutching Jebrassy, the other throwing a net, a thick cross-weave of glowing fibers that sucked itself in over the blackness and seemed, for the moment, to hold it back.

The warden pulled him away. “You are going,” it said, in a voice both passionless and irrefutable. Jebrassy was lifted from the floor and dangled like a doll. He swung his head just in time to see Tiadba squeeze past the warden’s gray carapace into the half-open door of the niche. The shriek and the roar grew, and to it Jebrassy now added his own shouts of pain—and a question: “

Why?”

Then Tiadba was back in the hall. She had retrieved a bag—their books. Turning her back to the warden, cringing, she allowed herself to be grasped and lifted. They both stared straight into the roiling dark that filled the opposite end of the corridor—

The roar, the wailing—

The net holding back the blackness had dissolved. The blackness advanced, offering at the crest of its dark wave three, four, five breeds—Jebrassy could not count them all—bobbing and twisting in ways nothing could twist, terrified, turning inside out and then skin side outward again, while still horribly alive, arms and legs moving with impossible speed—heads spinning like tops. The heads began to grow, the blurred eyes to expand, as if they would explode—

Tiadba added her screams to theirs.

And Jebrassy knew. He had seen this before, smaller, more concentrated. They were on the leading edge of an intrusion—like the one that had sucked away his mer and per. With a jerk, the warden retreated down the corridor, bumping and scraping the walls. Behind them the hallway squeezed itself into a wall and golden wardens gathered around the stair core to throw nets everywhere—

Their own warden spun them, pulled them inboard to avoid banging them against whatever chamber or new branch of hall they had entered, smooth and silvery—a hall or pipe he had never seen before. A lift! Like the one in the Diurns.

Jebrassy tried to reach for Tiadba but could not quite brush her with his fingers. She was alive, he could see that—she clutched the bag of books tightly to her chest—but she squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head as if in submission.

The journey along the shining pipe took almost no time, the air rushing by so quickly that despite the shield of the warden’s body, Jebrassy’s clothes were nearly torn from him. He felt his exposed skin grow warm—and then they flew from an opening in a far wall. The warden spread its wings and they rose in a gliding curve over the third isle. Jebrassy managed to open his eyes long enough to see how high they were—and was instantly sick.

He could not see Tiadba now—except for a foot thrust out from under the second wing—but with his stomach empty, a kind of fated calm came over him.

The first and second isles had been carved open, exposing dozens of levels. He looked with odd dispassion over broken and scalloped walls, whirlpools of retreating darkness—falling breeds. The air smelled rotten and burned at once. Half the ceil was gone, exposing something he had never seen before—the city abovehis sky, bits and pieces of unknown architecture, spirals and silvery arcs, walls and walkways, moving in an intricate dance of remediation, trying to reassemble and re-create safe havens for other citizens—