“If we have to die, I’m glad it’s out here, in the sunlight,” Nela said to Danivon. “I would have hated to die back in that cavern, with those faces looking at me.”
“Yes,” said Bertran, glancing at her over his shoulder. He had given thanks before, but he did it again, to the long-ago God of parochial school, the long-ago holy ones, saints and angels. Even for half a day it was good to stride along beside a beautiful woman, talking of things he had never imagined. He wanted more, but it was good to have this!
Behind them the edge of the world drew in. Behind them the glittering machines of the Brannigans glimmered and howled. Very soon they would overrun all of Panubi. Then they would finish what little was left of Elsewhere. Then, probably, Fringe thought to herself, they would kill one another.
They came at evening to a grove of trees that stood only a hundred yards or so from the edge of the massif. They were weary with that tiredness that is the lesser part physical. “Soul-weary,” Jory said to Nela.
“Soul-weary,” Nela repeated, seeing something beyond weariness in Jory’s eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked, knowing it for a foolish question.
“I’m here,” said Jory. “At least for a time. Though I’ll confess that a long sleep would be welcome….” Not that they wouldn’t all sleep soon enough. She led her horse onto a bit of grassy meadow at the edge of the grove and plucked a handful of grasses to feed the animal, running her old hands over its glossy hide as it munched, laying her cheeks against its soft nose.
She’s saying good-bye, Nela told herself. Saying good-bye to all this.
Asner watched them from beneath the nearest tree while Danivon built a campfire and took food from their packs, doing what people were doing all around the circled edge of stone. Asner could see the fires from where he stood, a line of fires, arcing away to the right, to the left, vanishing from sight but continuing, he knew, all the way around. The retreating edge of the Arbai Device was only half a mile behind them, motionless now, as it had recently been at night, as though the Arbai themselves had granted the chill mercy of respite for a last meal, a last sleep, perhaps a last embrace. Beyond that line the little slaughterers jittered and danced, waiting for morning. And behind them, some distance to the east, a thing like a malicious mountain crouched still in the dusk. Great Crawler, Great Oozer, Mighty Mountain, Lord God Breaze. The other monsters were arrayed like compass points around the massif: Magna Mater and Glorious Lady Bland and the tripartite monster that was Chimi-ahm, Subble Clore.
There had been human stragglers during the day’s travel. Everyone had heard and seen what had happened to those who had fallen behind the line of march, and none of those along the edge of ruddy stone had any illusions about what would happen in the morning. For the most part the campfires burned in terrible silence while people made their last desperate plans, said their last farewells.
Fringe stood for a long moment staring at the hulked shadow of Great Oozer, then, as Asner watched in amazement, took from her pack the full ceremonial garb of an Enforcer and put it on. When she was dressed, she came across the grassy clearing to him, her bonnet in her hand. “Will you come with me, Asner?”
“Where, girl?”
“Where Jory is, Asner.”
“And what are you all dressed up for?”
Fringe brushed at her sleeve. “Why not, Asner? This is what we wear to do honor.”
Danivon raised his head. “What, Fringe?”
“A little meeting,” she said quietly. “If you will join us.” She beckoned to Nela and Bertran, also, and the five of them went into the clearing where the massif rose red against the graying sky.
Jory stood with one scrawny arm over the horse’s neck, her head leaned against the tall animal, the two of them seeming lost in a wordless interchange.
Fringe put on her bonnet and strode forward to give the full Enforcers’ salute.
“Jory,” Fringe said. “Am I your daughter and heir?”
The old woman turned to face her. To Danivon, it seemed that her face was very still and empty.
“Fringe Owldark,” she said quietly. “I picked you for my daughter. You are my inheritor.”
“And what was yours will be mine?”
“All that is mine to give will be yours.”
Asner grunted as though he had been hit, and went to stand beside Jory.
Fringe swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “Then as your daughter I come to you to say it is time to relinquish, for you cannot do what must be done.”
“No,” said a voice in all their minds.
Jory bowed her head. “You have always said no,” she whispered. “The years have spun and you have said no. But isn’t it time, old friend?”
Her voice was breathless, with a quality of finality in it that was enough to keep all their eyes upon her. She reached for Asner’s hand.
“Isn’t she right, Asner? Hasn’t it been enough?” she said softly. “Asner?”
“Yes, Jory.” He nodded at her. “As you say. Enough.”
“No!” said something huge.
“Yes,” said Jory, speaking to that complicated mass of scale and shadow, to all that mighty presence that had been her own love for all the thousands of years. “Yes. We have spoken of this. The time is enough, and done, and over. You are all my estate, and
