“So be it,” Ghentun said. “After five hundred thousand years, I have fulfilled my duty to the Eidolons.”

CHAPTER 57

Tiadba stood on the outskirts of the training camp, along the broad, flat outer reach of the channel, lost in melancholy. She could barely make out the distant shapes of the three tablelike isles where she had spent her entire life. Blocs were stacked high on each table like jumbled cards, softened and shaded by the mist that puffed from the channel floor.

As the light over the blocs dimmed, drawing those far Tiers into sleep, she turned toward the overarched blackness beyond which lay—so they had been told—the outer works of the Kalpa and the reality generators that protected them from the Chaos. Her body felt like a coiled whip about to be snapped. She was ready. Time was flowing too quickly—not quickly enough.

They were being trained. The march was on…

Just when she thought she might be able to go on without Jebrassy, might be able to stop obsessing over the paths they would never follow together…she remembered the last sight of her young breed male, dangling from the grip of the brown warden, and grief flooded back. There had been an awful noise, breath-snatching flight, painted swirls of darkness—a terrifying, inchoate presence. Tiadba had withstood all of that. The wardens had dropped nine breeds in the flood channel—so she assumed. She remembered nothing of those early moments. She did remember that they had crossed a wide plain under a darker portion of the ceil, featureless but for drifts of rock-dust. The short channel trees that clumped in the old mud had soon given way to an immense flatness, vanishing into shadow on each side. They were all close to panic, terror replacing bravado even as they neared the end of this first stage of their journey and saw the huge arches that marked the outer channel bounds.

Perhaps Jebrassy had been protected and survived as well; perhaps he was lost somewhere nearby and would wander into the camp at any moment. But she wondered how she could still believe. She doubted he was still in the Tiers. Either way, he was not with her and she longed for him. The breeds rescued from the intrusion were not entirely the mix Grayne had been planning. Denbord, Macht, Perf, and Tiadba were the only members of Grayne’s group that had made it to the channel. Nico, Shewel, and Khren had helped Tiadba and Jebrassy search for loose books in the upper Tiers—though they had found none of their own. Mash—the fourth searcher in the upper Tiers—was sucked up in the intrusion, so Pahtun said. Tiadba had liked Mash. Others in Grayne’s group also vanished, and so the substitutes had become necessary—willing or no. The two other females—Herza and Frinna—were unknown to her, kept to themselves, and said little to anyone.

Khren, the strongest, had known Jebrassy most of his life. He had trained to be a pede-runner and repairer of meadow carts—when not fighting alongside Jebrassy in the little wars.

“I’d have never joined a march, and they’d have never picked me—so it’s even,” Khren said in camp.

“Going out there might be better than kicking pedes and mounting wheels—or it might not. They just better not get too swift with me, that’s all I’m saying.”

“They” were the five Tall Ones who had guided them along the channel to this camp, and in particular the trainer, an experienced-looking Mender named Pahtun. They were all learning more about Tall Ones than they had ever imagined possible. Tall Ones were divided into two types, it seemed: Shapers and Menders. Shapers were rare and never seen. All the escorts were Menders. Esolonico—Nico for short—and Shewel were shop-breeds, loaders and stackers learning to run market stalls; common types, though Nico fancied himself an expert on hidden wisdom. Tiadba doubted Grayne would have agreed.

Denbord had been senior to her in Grayne’s group, but seemed unsure about that now, since she carried the book bag, and Grayne had not sent him on his own search. He was a slender, thoughtful type, just the opposite of Jebrassy.

Their small camp had rudimentary facilities—six tents of translucent fabric open at both ends, and inside, flat sleeping pads. One remained empty—two males each filled three tents, and Tiadba had a tent to herself.

Frinna and Herza were pale, quiet types from the lower Tiers on the second isle—what Tiadba’s mer and per would have called cart-glows, or worse, dims. Tiadba herself felt no discomfort at their stolid quiet, yet she was certain—again—that Grayne would never have picked them. None of them had dreams or visitors.

A few dozen yards beyond the tents stood a large round hut, silvery and hard, in which the trainers kept the tools and armor the marchers would use on their journey. Few provisions had been made for comfort or privacy, though fresh produce was delivered daily from the meadows.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Pahtun remarked. “Out there, no more eating or drinking. You certainly can’t live off the land. Your armor will nourish you.”

Twelve wakes and twelve sleeps passed mostly in vigorous exercise—for stamina and strength—and walking around the dust-drifted channel floor, barely better than sulking in their tents or fidgeting and scrapping.

Pahtun seemed older than the other four. Khren thought Tall Ones could look as old as they wished; didn’t they all live forever? Nico doubted that. Since none of the breeds felt brave enough to ask, Tiadba assumed that Pahtun was the oldest because he moved with deliberation, spoke clearly, and used breed terms all could understand, as if he had dealt with their kind many times before. Despite the late and forcible recruiting, only three voiced any inclination to leave. One came from Grayne’s group: Perf, a gangling, clumsy breed in middle youth who was miserable away from his niche and let everyone know it.

During one sleep, Herza and Frinna tried to sneak off but were retrieved. They did not try again. After that, Perf didn’t even try.

CHAPTER 58

The Broken Tower

A warm shadow drifted over Jebrassy as he lay in the small room, so very like his sponsors’ niche in the Tiers. He felt as if he were being weighed and measured—in ways he could not understand, but deep and fundamental.

The exam was painless but he did not like it. “What’s happening?” he asked. No answer. Instead, the measurement seemed to change focus, moving up and out, and found him. His thinking self.

“What are you doing?”

The warm shadow expressed satisfaction. Then a voice sounded, so pleasant and familiar he was sure he’d heard it before—but couldn’t remember who it might be.

“Do you know what’s happened to you?”

“I’ve been brought to the Broken Tower.”

“Do you know why?”

“We’re too stupid and weak to be told such things.”

The voice became more immediate. “On the contrary, you’ve done well. You’re probably the strongest creatures in the Kalpa. Certainly the most important, now that my work is almost done.”

“You’re the Librarian?”

“Part of him—a part that has managed to keep some level of sanity over this half of eternity. Do you know about Eidolons?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter. The Librarian has become a Great Eidolon, which means he can no longer understand what it means to be small and insignificant. So he sets apart a few of his many selves, called ‘epitomes,’

and they fulfill that function. You’re talking to one now.”

“You’re not cold, like those blue things.”

“I am closer to the core of the Librarian. What you tell and show me, the Librarian knows immediately.”

“I’d like to see you.”

“Soon. But understand, anything you see will be an illusion, so even if you couldsee me, you wouldn’t strike out, despite your clenched fists. Like hitting a shadow, it would bring you no satisfaction.”