family—right
hand to right hand, third and fourth fingers curled tight to the palm.
Faregan wept with the joy of it. He was one of the Masters of the Inquest at last. As low in the order as a Master could be,
but still a Secret Master. Time and good fortune would carry him higher, he thought. And if it did not, still he stood among
the only men in the world he had ever cared to join.
Wraith sat in the basement, listening to Jess breathe. For a while he sat next to her, watching her curled on her little pile
of rags. In the next few days her life would change, and he couldn’t know whether he was taking her into a disaster or rescuing
her from hell. Trusting, she slept.
Wraith couldn’t sleep, though.
He moved to the top of the stairs and opened the door just a bit and stared up at the sky above, and at the dark spots that
blotted out some of the stars—blots that were the grand homes of the Aboves floating overhead. Solander waited up there at
that very moment.
Solander had said he thought he might be able to move them in as little as three days.
Wraith listened to the silence around him. The Warrens were always quiet at night—people went to bed soon after the sun set
and got up just as it rose—mindlessly obedient to the dictates of the gods, the lessons, the prayers, and the distribution
of the Way-fare.
He had created Jess and Smoke—had stolen them away from their worlds of prayers and lessons and Way-fare because he had been
lonely. A lost, lonely little boy, surrounded from the moment of his birth by people who could not see him—who fed him and
changed him by rote and dictates, but who did not understand when he cried, and did not respond to his pleas for someone to
play with him. Wraith was in his world but not a part of it, and he had discovered early that in his world, he could do almost
anything without reprimand, censure, or even notice. He could skip lessons, could skip prayers, could go out the doors after
dark—and contrary to the endless droning teachings, the gods never struck him down for his blasphemy.
But he could not get his mother to see him. Nor his brothers, nor his sisters. He went to his daily lessons because he could
think of nothing better to do—and when he was there, he began to notice children whose eyes wandered from the teacher-screen.
They did not speak to him when he spoke to them, but sometimes they looked his way for a moment— and for the first time since
his birth, he thought he might not have to spend his life alone.
So he’d led the children whose attention wandered away from lessons, only to find that they would not stay with him. They
fought him stubbornly, returning to the nearest homes and prayer-lights as soon as they could break away from him, and going
the next day to their lessons and the teacher-screen as if nothing had happened. They did not recognize him. They did not
seem to remember anything. But when he spoke to them, they sometimes briefly glanced his way.
A girl he’d called Shina had been his first success. She’d been closer to the surface all along than the rest of his classmates,
and when he spoke to her one day, she’d managed to make an actual sound. She had not made any words, but just the sound had
been so exciting to Wraith that he had wept. He pulled her to his little hideout, and this time he locked the door with both
of them inside. He’d stolen food from beyond the gates, for even then he suspected that the food was part of what was wrong
with everyone in the Warrens—that something about the Way-fare, the manna of the beneficent gods, held a deadly bite within
it.
He’d ventured out of the Warrens before, startled but unscathed by the flashing gate light, to find a wonderland beyond. He
kept in his hideout a little stash of foods he’d found or stolen—wonderful foods, with flavors and textures and colors—and
when his still-nameless captive stopped trying to get out
hand to right hand, third and fourth fingers curled tight to the palm.
Faregan wept with the joy of it. He was one of the Masters of the Inquest at last. As low in the order as a Master could be,
but still a Secret Master. Time and good fortune would carry him higher, he thought. And if it did not, still he stood among
the only men in the world he had ever cared to join.
Wraith sat in the basement, listening to Jess breathe. For a while he sat next to her, watching her curled on her little pile
of rags. In the next few days her life would change, and he couldn’t know whether he was taking her into a disaster or rescuing
her from hell. Trusting, she slept.
Wraith couldn’t sleep, though.
He moved to the top of the stairs and opened the door just a bit and stared up at the sky above, and at the dark spots that
blotted out some of the stars—blots that were the grand homes of the Aboves floating overhead. Solander waited up there at
that very moment.
Solander had said he thought he might be able to move them in as little as three days.
Wraith listened to the silence around him. The Warrens were always quiet at night—people went to bed soon after the sun set
and got up just as it rose—mindlessly obedient to the dictates of the gods, the lessons, the prayers, and the distribution
of the Way-fare.
He had created Jess and Smoke—had stolen them away from their worlds of prayers and lessons and Way-fare because he had been
lonely. A lost, lonely little boy, surrounded from the moment of his birth by people who could not see him—who fed him and
changed him by rote and dictates, but who did not understand when he cried, and did not respond to his pleas for someone to
play with him. Wraith was in his world but not a part of it, and he had discovered early that in his world, he could do almost
anything without reprimand, censure, or even notice. He could skip lessons, could skip prayers, could go out the doors after
dark—and contrary to the endless droning teachings, the gods never struck him down for his blasphemy.
But he could not get his mother to see him. Nor his brothers, nor his sisters. He went to his daily lessons because he could
think of nothing better to do—and when he was there, he began to notice children whose eyes wandered from the teacher-screen.
They did not speak to him when he spoke to them, but sometimes they looked his way for a moment— and for the first time since
his birth, he thought he might not have to spend his life alone.
So he’d led the children whose attention wandered away from lessons, only to find that they would not stay with him. They
fought him stubbornly, returning to the nearest homes and prayer-lights as soon as they could break away from him, and going
the next day to their lessons and the teacher-screen as if nothing had happened. They did not recognize him. They did not
seem to remember anything. But when he spoke to them, they sometimes briefly glanced his way.
A girl he’d called Shina had been his first success. She’d been closer to the surface all along than the rest of his classmates,
and when he spoke to her one day, she’d managed to make an actual sound. She had not made any words, but just the sound had
been so exciting to Wraith that he had wept. He pulled her to his little hideout, and this time he locked the door with both
of them inside. He’d stolen food from beyond the gates, for even then he suspected that the food was part of what was wrong
with everyone in the Warrens—that something about the Way-fare, the manna of the beneficent gods, held a deadly bite within
it.
He’d ventured out of the Warrens before, startled but unscathed by the flashing gate light, to find a wonderland beyond. He
kept in his hideout a little stash of foods he’d found or stolen—wonderful foods, with flavors and textures and colors—and
when his still-nameless captive stopped trying to get out
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