juice slowly flow out to fill a large spoon. Then, with a practiced deftness, the rotator stopped the flow, raised the spoon back over the top edge of the bowl, plunged it into the water layer, and stirred it vigorously about. The juice sprayed into a shower of the fine droplets that quickly added a hint of orange to the transparent crispness of the water, but somehow did not disturb the darker opaqueness that rested beneath.
Using the same spoon with a hinged cover over the top, Abel next extracted some of the water and plunged it into the denser juice. He manipulated a lever that released the spoon's contents and again swirled it about, slightly lightening the deep color in the process.
Kestrel yawned, partially from the tension of waiting, but also because he had seen the ritual more than a dozen times. Abel returned the spoon to the spout near the bottom of the bowl, collected some of the lower liquid, and mixed it with the top. Again he extracted some of the result and swirled it with the bottom. With each transfer the water became more and more cloudy, the juice more and more fluid and transparent, and the horizontal line marking the boundary between the two harder and harder to detect.
Finally, after perhaps a score of transfers, the boundary line began to buckle and writhe. Fingers of liquid started to intertwine and merge. In an indefinable instant, the two liquids coalesced into one with no distinction between them. Abel grunted in satisfaction, and the warriors began lining up with their cups and gourds.
Soon everyone had their fill of juice and wind-dried bread. In a rigorous sequence, the warriors began nodding off to sleep, assuming a variety of positions, some leaning against the trees, while others curled up into tight little balls near the roots.
Kestrel watched the eyes of the last one close and then smiled across the pond at Phoebe. Now that he was commander, he should at least be able to move about as he decided, especially since Abel now dozed with the rest. He had to try again to break Phoebe out of the depression that seemed to grow with each passing moment. And, he admitted as well, the softness of her touch was something that he was beginning to miss more and more.
Kestrel glanced at Astron and saw the demon stirring the contents of one of the flour tins with his little finger. The demon wrinkled his nose as a tiny cyclone of tiny orange particles swirled up into the air. Two subnodes around the oasis from Kestrel, Nimbia sat and stretched. Finally she looked as if she were recovering from her effort of creation. It appeared that neither of them would need his attention.
With a grin of anticipation, Kestrel started to walk toward Phoebe's subnode, but then halted. Abel always seemed to sense when the next move was about to begin, he thought suddenly. The commander would shout the call to order and begin assembling the warriors in flying formation with just precisely sufficient time to start moving when the tug of the second protocol hit the oasis.
Kestrel slapped the pommel of the heavy sword. It would not do if everyone staggered awake in disarray while he was in mid-dalliance with Phoebe, despite her need for cheering. He scowled at the direction his thoughts were taking him. Such concerns were madness. What difference did it make what Abel and the others judged of his actions? They were no more than creatures of imagination. He had no real allegiance to them. They were merely the means to the end of achieving deliverance.
He ran his fingers over the smooth grooves which spiraled up the hilt of the sword. It was heavy, true, but even in the short time he had worn it, despite the undercurrent of the entrapment, there was a degree of excitement as well-something he had not felt since before he first met Evelyn. All the warriors now nodded to him with that subtle hint of respect that only Abel had received before. He was now more than just another body that broke the symmetry of the node; he was the commander in whom they trusted the course of the next move.
Kestrel looked out over the desert and sighed. His emotions began to churn in a sudden tumble. Creatures of imagination or not, they deserved better than he. There was no deceit in Abel's eyes or in any of the others' that followed him-only trust in the one who wore the sword.
Kestrel stepped back to the tree and folded his arms across his chest as he had seen Abel do at least a dozen times before. Slowly he began counting in his head, ticking off the featureless time as best he was able. After twenty thousand counts, he decided, then I will sound the alert.
Kestrel bobbed and weaved in the whistling wind. The time to the next move had passed quickly enough, and he had got the troop off in fairly decent order. Strong eddies created by the rucksack on his back rocked him about. Unlike the rotators, he was unable to keep a completely smooth trajectory over the expanse of sand. But the grace of his motion was not Kestrel's primary concern. Far sooner than he wished, the distance to the next oasis, the one that Astron said put them a step closer to the origin, was melting away.
As he squinted into the haze, he saw the tops of the ring of trees appear over the horizon and then the lower trunks. He held his breath, hoping that his wish for an unoccupied oasis would be realized, but soon he saw it was not to be. Shadowy forms of many men loomed into detail. If they were rotators, surely Abel and the others would have known. He saw the glint of arms and, at the edge of the water, a towering construction of dull metal that emitted loud clicks radiating out across the sands.
'Is there any particular formation that you use when approaching a hostile oasis?' Kestrel called out to Abel on his left. He patted the thick copper blade at his side, but received little reassurance from it. It looked as if they would be slightly outnumbered and had little hope for surprise.
'It depends on how they are deployed about the sub-nodes,' Abel called back. 'If they are evenly distributed, the force of symmetry will deposit us in a similar fashion. If they have most of their men at one of the trees, then the fewest of ours will have to face them. The bulk of our own will land at a subnode across the oasis from them.'
'What is the machine by the water?' Kestrel asked.
'Something exchanged with the chronoids, you can be sure,' Abel said. 'I have seen nothing of that size in any of the moves that I can remember. Be on your guard; the dance of combat might be tricky the first time you engage.'
Kestrel started to say more, but thought better of it. Concentrating on exactly where he would land and whom he immediately would be facing was far better than idle chatter. He glanced at Phoebe, sailing along behind him and slightly to the right. He did not like the possibility of her being separated and sent off to another of the subnodes, but there was nothing he could do about it. Astron and Nimbia would have to take care of themselves as best they could.
As they drew even closer, the details of the oasis began to crispen in the hazy sky. A lookout on top of one of the trees shouted an alarm. With a flurry of activity, the warriors at ground level started adjusting their weapons. From the distance, they looked no different from the rotators, having pale gray complexions, leather vests, leggings and boots, and blades of orange-copper at their waists.
Kestrel saw two of the reflectives run to the machine and begin straining against a large key thrust into one of its sides. From their angle of flight, Kestrel's group could see around the corner of the plate of metal into the unshielded innards of the device. Giant cogwheels with the height of a man meshed with teeth the size of interleaved fists. A loosely coiled escapement banged against a long ratchet that ran the full length of the cage. Axles squeaked and gears whirled as the key brought the mechanism to life.
Kestrel did not have time to observe more. With a final whoosh, he swerved to the right as he approached. His teeth clanged with the contact with the ground. For a moment, his vision blurred from the shock.
Kestrel shook his head and reached for his blade, finding a sudden resistance to the motion of his arm. He looked quickly about and saw one of Abel's lieutenants at his side and two of the reflectives facing him an arm's length away.
He strained again for his blade, but the resistance was greater than before. One of the reflectives laughed, and the other eyed him with a satisfied grin. Kestrel looked again at the lieutenant, then back to the reflectives. With the skill of a synchronized ballet, the two warriors facing them reached in unison for their swords, and the rotator copied their motion, flowing with it, rather than trying to resist. Kestrel pushed toward the scabbard a final time, but to no avail. He had not noticed it before, but of all those who fought, he was the only one who was right-handed.
With an awkward thrust he twisted his left arm down his side, fumbling to draw his sword and pushing away the thought of the hopelessness of what he was doing. To his surprise, it did not fall from his grip as he pulled it free, but soared to a guard position in front of his body, just like the others.
The warriors yelled and swung viciously downward. Kestrel felt his arm follow through with the rest. With a grating shriek the blades slipped past one another and crashed point-first into the ground. Then as one, all four of
