Their only hope for freedom, they had once believed, lay outside the Kalpa, far from the stifle of history and tradition. The books, their trainer, the sky itself, such as it was—all told a different story. They were once again being used. As they had always suspected, they were just tools, means to an end. Still, Pahtun seemed concerned for their welfare. Now that the training was almost over, his gruffness had tempered to patient instruction about last-minute details. He repeated himself often, and this irritated Tiadba, but when she looked at the other breeds, she understood the necessity. Especially for Herza and Frinna, who never asked questions. They needed the stories told over and over for a reason. How could they possibly survive in the Chaos?
“The middle lands are most difficult,” Pahtun said for the hundredth time. “The zone of lies is called that for a reason—intrusions can happen at any moment. You must cross quickly. Should the Chaos launch an assault through the sector you are crossing, the battle between the Kalpa’s generators and the intrusion will create intense whirlpools of fractured time and space, almost invisible and deadly. Get caught in one and you will never reach the border of the real. Your suits will not become fully active in this region. Listen to them—they will tell you when an intrusion and its effects are near, and whether your perceptions, or your decisions, are being clouded.”
Their own spoken words reached each other directly, right in their ears—but the way the armor communicated was difficult to get used to. It only rarely used audible words. Much of the time they simply “knew better.” Tiadba was not sure whether she resented this subtlety. It could certainly prove useful beyond the gates and the border of the real—though Pahtun and the other escorts had warned them that the suits could not know everything.
Pahtun said, “Don’t underestimate your instincts—you are observers, made of ancient matter, and observers are primary even out in the Chaos. The Typhon is envious of your senses. This is the first principle—out there, to look, to perceive, is to be hated. Later, when you’ve acquired direct experience of the Chaos, you will learn to rely more and more on your own judgment, above all things. But at first, and certainly in the zone of lies, rely upon your suits.”
“How can something inside the borders be worse than what’s outside?” Nico asked.
“Not worse—just treacherous,” Khren said. “Like being bitten by a tame pede. You don’t expect it.”
“Oh,” Nico said.
“A meadow pede bit me once, when I stepped on its tail,” Shewel said.
“Pedes are all tail,” Perf said.
“This one was all bite. Nearly lost a toe. Still hurts when I walk a long ways.” Shewel’s skin shone pale behind his golden faceplate.
Pahtun slowed enough that Tiadba could catch up with him, then tuned his voice to her helmet alone.
“Some marchers think they’ve been betrayed,” he said. “They think the Kalpa sends them out into the Chaos to die, or worse—for no reason. Doesn’t matter what trainers tell them. Maybe it’s the books they find back in the Tiers. Bad start, that sort of thinking.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so she stared straight ahead.
“What’s most startling to the trainers is that even when the marchers start off badly, if they make it across the zone of lies, they seem to do well—as far as they can be tracked from the Broken Tower. It’s true, young breed—you were made for the Chaos.”
“But none come back,” she said.
“Maybe they get where they’re going and it’s better there—for breeds. If I could, I would join your march and go see. Do you believe me when I say that?”
He seemed to care about her answer. She did believe him, but did not want to give him the satisfaction of saying so. After all, his kind had let the cities die, let the Chaos advance, let the intrusions in—and had taken Jebrassy from her, and she could not guess why.
More miles passed, and they came to a row of square gray pillars, each about a hundred feet tall and ten feet thick. They stretched off in both directions for as far as she could see—tens of miles. The marchers gathered around one pillar.
Pahtun patted it. “These mark the outer boundary of the old city, before the Mass Wars and the Chaos. Back then the Kalpa was huge—bigger than I can imagine. The middle lands lie two miles beyond these markers. I’ll take you a few hundred yards into the zone, and then we must part company.”
Pahtun stood for a moment, hand against a pillar. Then he straightened and walked on.
“He’s afraid,” Khren said as he drew near Tiadba.
“He can hear you,” she reminded him.
“ I’mafraid,” Khren said, and tipped his finger against his helmet, as if to touch his nose. “But I’m excited, too. What does that mean?”
The others tipped their fingers to their faceplates, and Nico stretched out his arms, folding them like a warden’s wings, and danced over the cracked, dusty plain. His boots—all their boots—were gray with the ashen dust.
“Maybe we’re going aaarp,” Perf said. “That would explain a lot. We’re not even there and already we’re broken.”
Pahtun and the escorts may have been listening, but just kept walking until the low black line they had seen for some while now grew into a glossy black wall, with a narrow gap cut through, barely wide enough for one breed.
“Do all marchers pass through there?” Khren asked.
“No,” Pahtun said. “This gate opened a few minutes ago. The Kalpa has chosen the safest path—for now.”
“Somebody up in the tower is keeping track?” Perf asked.
Tiadba felt the sudden urge to look over her shoulder. She knew—suddenly and completely—where Jebrassy was. He was in the tower—but he wasn’t watching.
No need to turn around. No need to look back at all. She was done with the city. She would never return.
But she was not done with Jebrassy, nor he with her.
He’s coming. But by the time he arrives, you might not care.
“Oh, shut up,” she said under her breath.
“Sorry,” Perf said.
“Not talking to you.”
Pahtun turned sideways and squeezed through the gap. Tiadba went after him. All of the others followed, their armor brushing the exposed inner surface with an eerie, slick hum. When all were through, Pahtun gathered them once again into a tight group, and they stared out at the zone of lies—gray, jagged, broken; indistinct shapes mounded low along the horizon. “You’ll cross quickly. I’ll go as far as I can, but then you’re on your own. The next barrier is another low wall, about as high as your knee—marking the farthest reach of the Kalpa’s generators. These are the border of the real. And just beyond, you’ll see what looks like a great gate welcoming you, but don’t go there. It’s a trap—it rises wherever observers try to cross. A Typhonian welcome—if you pass through it, you’re lost. It takes you straight to the Silent Ones.”
Tiadba saw Khren mouth Silent Ones,his eyes wide.
Tiadba looked up just long enough to see a sharp gray ribbon arc overhead, and realized the Witness was still rotating its searchlight beam across the Kalpa and around the Chaos. With every sweep, the beam intersected the Broken Tower. The Witness was looking for someone—for Jebrassy—had always been searching for him. But why the Witness would care, couldcare, and why Jebrassy might be there, rather than here, her unreliable inner voice could not inform her, and so she did not know, and refused to think about it anymore.
“Now, follow! Run!” Pahtun said, and he loped off to provide an example. The four escorts stayed behind, kneeling with staffs held out in salute.
The breeds did their best to keep up, but soon the trainer was far ahead. Tiadba could barely see him, clambering over broken rubble, then standing and looking back over their heads—raising his arms. He saw something—but Tiadba knew he shouldn’t just stand there.
A warning—