Khren stood beside Tiadba and glanced at her through his golden-colored face pane.

“And now—the time has come to tell you your destination,” Pahtun said. “It is the destination of all pilgrims since the time of Sangmer—the only other point on Earth where sense may still rule and where there may be help for the Kalpa. It is the rebel city called Nataraja. There, if all goes well, you will connect with whomever remains free of Typhonian rule. You will work with them and tell what you know, and follow their instructions. Believe me, young breeds, if I could go with you, I would.”

Tiadba brushed the leg pouch that contained her bag of books.

Pahtun seemed nervous, even guilty. He was repeating his instructions. “No one knows what awaits you. Your armor has reactive protection—it can learn faster than you, and will do all in its power to adapt and to protect you against the Typhon’s perversions. Your face panes will convert whatever passes for radiation into photons you can see, and that will do you no harm. Sometimes they may fail to find anything they know how to convert—and so you will see darkness or approximations based on recent events. The closer you are as a team, the more your suits can communicate and coordinate. It is unwise to straggle or scatter too far—but distance out there is difficult to judge, even with the best equipment.

“Temptations may exist. The vigilants will try to get you to switch off your generators and strip away your armor. Should you find their temptation irresistible, you will no longer be a breed, but become part of the Typhon’s misrule—an atrocity like those exhibited across so much of the Chaos. And some who have failed—even the greatest, the bravest—are used by the Typhon against the Kalpa.”

Pahtun struggled for words. “It is possible that the Defenders will fail, and you will lose the beacon’s guidance. The last option then is destruction. The armor will bestow this mercy.”

Tiadba’s suit no longer itched or chafed. She could not feel her skin—the furry bits that had bunched here and there and itched seemed to have been soothed. No doubt the armor was taking charge of all her sensations—perhaps she would soon become just a suit and not a living creature. What would Grayne think, seeing them now? How could they have been better prepared, better educated?

“We need to get moving,” Pahtun said, one hand touching his shoulder. The four escorts straightened and held out their staffs. “We have a brief opening, and we must pass through the gate before it closes.”

They began.

The halves of the marchers’ helmets swung from their neck-pieces with the rhythm of their steps. Their boots made soft, flat clicks. Together, they sounded like farm pedes crawling over dry, hard dirt. They walked for long miles beneath the huge central arch, one side illuminated by the wakelight of the far ceil, the other…not. The quality of sound changed in a way difficult to describe. Tiadba had spent her entire life in the Tiers listening to the hive-hum of voice and echo, all her fellow breeds speaking, moving, thinking.That now fell off into stony quiet and a new quality replaced it: destitute hollowness, bereft, lonely yet somehow proud—and more ancient than any of them could conceive.

The Tiers had always stood apart within the Kalpa, lower than any other level, yet special, different. How many marchers had performed this journey already, as scared as they were, as lonely and far from all they had ever known?

“It’s quiet,” Khren said.

Miles to go—hundreds, thousands. Who could know?

We’re leaving the Tiers behind forever.

We’re crossing into the Chaos.

Whether their eyes adjusted to the gloom or the air here was clearer, Tiadba could not say—but suddenly she could make out square, regular shapes lined up on each side of the arch—taller than the tallest of the blocs of Tiers.

“What are those?” she asked, keeping her voice soft. Out here she felt it might be even more important to show respect.

“The inner rank of reality generators,” Pahtun said. “They become active if the outer ranks fail.”

The floor was uneven, broken by periodic ripples as if it had buckled under awesome pressure. Here and there, scars and parallel scuffs marred the otherwise smooth surface. Perhaps intrusions had slipped through this way, touched down…and burned.

Ahead, Tiadba could just make out the far edge of the vault and something else—a slowly shimmering barrier.

As minutes of walking passed into hours, the shimmer did not seem to get any closer. Still, her energy did not flag. The suit’s effect was energizing, electric. Grayne’s words from the early meetings returned to her.

You could walk for thousands of miles across the roughest, most forbidding terrain, yet you’ll remain fit and strong. It will be the fulfillment of all you are, the adventure of a lifetime. I envy you.

After dozens of miles and hours of marching, the dark vault overhead still seemed endless. Then—a change. The shimmer appeared distinctly closer. Despite her doubts, she could not help getting excited. The sky. Pahtun said to be ready for the sky.

“Helmets up. Seal them tight,” the second escort ordered.

Tiadba looked around, took a deep breath. The air—the last privilegedair of the Tiers—was already bitterly cold. Frost formed on her lower lip and around her nose. Then, as one, the halves of their helmets—which until now had lain on their shoulders like empty fruit skins—rose up and sealed with a hiss that made her ears pop. Her head grew warm and her vision sharpened. The shimmer ahead acquired a life and sparkle she had not noticed before.

“Wonderful,” Perf said. “My ears aren’t cold.”

Pahtun brought them to a halt. The escorts lined up behind them, as if to block escape. They don’t get it. Pahtun understands—these others don’t, not at all!

The marchers milled restlessly. They stood on the crest of a particularly high ripple in the Kalpa’s outer foundations.

Suddenly, the shimmer fell directly in front of them, then bulged inward as if to push them back. The escorts raised their staffs. Pahtun leaned forward. “Wait for it,” the trainer said. “Don’t walk into it. Let it find you.”

Khren glanced at Tiadba through his faceplate. What she could see of his face looked calm, resigned.

“Wait for it,” Pahtun cautioned again. The breeds cringed inside their armor, as if they might be snatched up and eaten.

The shimmer did not move, but suddenly it was behind them. They had passed through without taking a step, and now saw more miles of uneven ground ahead, and beyond, a wall studded with huge shapes: the Defenders.

The final, outer rank of reality generators.

Beyond those tall, blurred shapes lay the middle lands, the zone of lies. Tiadba looked straight up. They were out from under the vault. The sky loomed.

Open sky.

She captured an impression of endlessly falling curtains, restless color she could not process or accept—no color at all, actually, and probably no motion. Her eyes suddenly lost focus. The sky worked them in ways they had never had to work before.

“You don’t want to see everything at once,” Pahtun said, “even through the faceplates. Look down, shut your eyes if they hurt.”

Her eyes didhurt—they wanted to tumble in their sockets and face the back of her skull—but Tiadba did not look down, did not shut them. She had waited too long for this. She rotated on the pads of her boots and looked up along the great curved exterior bulk of the first bion, then left and right, trying to take in the other two huge, dark shapes, both split and cracked—in partial ruins. The Kalpa—what was left of it.

Something above slowly came into view, pushing up and away from behind the first bion: a curving ribbon of painful fire, red and purple at once, fencing in a black, consuming nothingness, empty of thought and life. Tiadba’s mouth hung open and her breath became ragged. It was instantly and obviously wrong—so strange as to push her beyond fright.