That sounded like Buddenbaum, she said.
"Well whatever he is," Coker went on, "he has more power in him than most. That wound should have killed him on the spot."
She pictured Buddenbaum as he spoke, pulling the blade out of his own back.
"It was extraordinary," Coker replied. Though she had not said a word she knew without question he was speaking of the same sight.
"How did you do that?" she said.
He looked at her guiltily. "I'm sorry," he said, "that was impolite. It's just that it was so clear."
"You saw what I saw?" He nodded. "What else have you seen?"
"Not much," he said.
"What?" she insisted.
"When you talked about building," he said. "I saw a city."
She named it for him. "That's Everville. My Papa was oing to build it-" She paused a moment, then said: "What id it look like?"
"It was shining," he replied simply.
"Good," she said.
It was dark by the time they reached the wagon, but the snow that had blanketed the heights was failing only fitfully below. While Coker made a bed for himself, Maeve rooted around for what crumbs and scraps of food remained, and they ate together. Then they slept again, while the wind buffeted the wagon; fitful sleep, filled with dreams, the strangest of which Maeve woke from with such a start Coker stirred beside her.
"What is it?" he asked her.
She sat up. "I was back in Liverpool," she said. "And there were wolves in the streets, walking upright in fancy clothes."
"You heard them howling in your sleep," Coker said. The wind was still carrying the howls down the mountainside. "That's all." He raised his hand to her face and stroked it gently.
"I wasn't afraid," she said. "I was happy." She rose and lit the lamp.
"I was walking in the streets," she went on, turning the blankets aside as she spoke, "and the wolves were bowing to me when I went by." She had uncovered the teak chest, and now threw open the lid.
"What are you looking for?"
She didn't answer, but delved through the papers in the chest until she found a piece of folded paper. She closed the chest and unfolded the paper on top of it. Though the light from the lamp was paltry, the object wrapped in the paper gleamed as it was uncovered.
"What is it?" Coker wanted to know.
"Papa never told me properly," she said. "But it was-" she faltered, and lifted the paper up towards the light so she could study it better. There were eight words upon it, in perfect copper-plate.
Bury this at the crossroads, where Everville begins.
"Now we know," she said.
The snow continued to fall the following day, but lightly. they made two small bundles of supplies, wrapped up as warmly as they could, and began the last portion of their journey. The tracks left by the rest of the wagons were still visible, and they followed them for half a mile or so, their route steadily taking them further from the mountain.
"We've followed them far enough," Maeve announced after a time.
"We've got no choice," Coker replied.
"Yes we do," she said, leading him to the side of the trail, where a tree-lined slope fell away steeply into a misty gorge. "they couldn't go that way 'cause of the wagons, but we can.
"I can hear rushing down there," Coker said. "A river!" Maeve said with a grin. "It's a river!"
Without further debate they started down. It wasn't easy. Though the snow turned to a light dusting and then disappeared entirely as they descended, the rocks were slick with vivid green moss, which also grew in abundance on the trees, whether dead or alive. Twice they came to places where the slope became too steep to be negotiated, and they were obliged to retrace their steps to find an easier way, but for all their exhaustion they didn't stop to rest. they had the sound-and now the glittering sight-of the river to tempt them on; and everywhere, signs of life: ferns and berry bushes and birdsong.
At last, as they reached level ground, and began to beat a trail to the river, a breeze came up out of nowhere, and the mist that had kept them from seeing any great distance was rolled away.
they said nothing to one another, but stood a few yards from the white waters and looked in astonishment at the scene beyond. The dark evergreens now gave way to trees in all their autumnal glory, orange and red and brown, their branches busy with birds, the thicket beneath quickened by creatures pelting away at the scent of these interlopers. There would be food aplenty here: fruit and honey and fish and fowl.
And beyond the trees, where the river took its glittering there was green land. A place to begin.
On the mountain that would come to be known as Harmon's Heights, the elements were beginning the slow process of erasing the dead and their artifacts. they stripped from the bodies what little flesh the wolves and carrion birds had left. they pounded the bones till they splintered, then pounded the splinters to dust. they shredded the tents and the fine robes; they rusted the blades and the buckles. they removed from the sight of any who might chance upon the battlefield in decades to come, all but the minutest signs of what had happened there.
But there was one sign the elements could not remove; a sign that would have certainly disappeared had there not been a last living soul upon the Mountainside to preserve it.
His names were numerous, for he was the son of a great family, but to all who had loved him-and there had been many-be was called by the name of a legendary ancestor: Noah.
He had come to the mountain with such hopes in his heart he had several times wished aloud for the words to express them better. Now he half-believed he'd called disaster down, wishing for words. After all, hadn't it been words spoken by a child that had undone the ceremony and brought the truce to such a bloody end?
He had fled the signs of that battle half-insane, fled into the forest where he had sat and sobbed for the wife he'd seen perish in front of him, her heart too tender to survive the trauma of having her spirit-child unknitted. He, on the other hand, was beyond such frailties, coming as he did from a line of incorruptibles. His mind was part of a greater scheme, and though nothing would have pleased him more than to cease thinking, cease living, he could not violate his family's laws against self-slaughter. Nor would his body perish for want of sustenance. He could fatten himself on moonlight if he so chose.
So at last, when he'd wept himself out, he returned to the sight of the tragedy. The beasts had already done their disfiguring work, for which he was grateful. He could not distinguish one corpse from another; they were all simply meat for this devouring world.
He climbed the slope and slipped between the rocks, up to the place where the door that had led on to the shores of Quiddity had burned. It was gone, of course; sealed up. Nor could he expect it to be opened again any time soon-if at all-given that most all of the people who had known about the ceremony were on this side of the divide, and dead. Blessedm'n Filigree, who had opened the crack in the first place, was a notable exception (was he a conspirator in this, perhaps?), but given that his opening of the door was a crime punishable by servitude and confinement, he was likely to have fled to the Ephemeris since the tragedy and found a place to lie low until the investigations were over. But as Noah stood on the spot where the threshold between Cosm and Metacosm had been laid, he saw something flickenng close to the ground. He went down on his haunches and peered at it more closely. The door, it seemed, had not entirely closed. A narrow gap, perhaps four or five inches long, remained in place. He touched it, and it wavered, as though it might at any moment flicker out. Then, moving very cautiously, he went down on his belly and put his eye close to the gap.
He could see the beach, and the sea, but there were no ships. Apparently their captains had sensed disaster and sailed away to some harbor where they could count their profits and swear their crews to silence.