Dust

'I am Gavin,' said the basilisk. 'Welcome to this Heaven, daughters of Benedick.'

Rien did not know what Perceval would have done, but she could imagine it.

She stepped between the basilisk and her sister. The branch still swayed under its sudden weight, its wings fanning lightly for balance. Rien had seen a mountebank's parrot on a swing, and she thought of that now.

She didn't know what she'd do when it lunged. Its toes and talons measured together were as long as her pinky finger; its beak looked strong enough to snip that finger off. When it turned its head side to side, she was certain it was measuring the distance between them, and no matter that its eyes were closed. She crouched under its gaze, extended her right arm—the left still stung numb—and groped in wet earth and leaf litter for a stone, a branch ... anything.

'I greet you politely,' the basilisk said. 'And you fumble for a rock. Is this how you meet a stranger on the road in Rule? I would worry about your courtesy to guests.'

The oddest thing was its beak, moving like a hand puppet's mouth. Exactly as if a beak and a thick black tongue could form the sounds of human speech—

Rien remembered the parrot, and shut her gaping jaw. She didn't straighten, though, or drop a knee. Fair words or not, after the past few hours she was not eager to trust a stranger. 'I beg your pardon,' she said. And pointed back, with her elbow like a bird's bent wing, at Perceval. 'This is how we treat guests in Rule. I would not recommend you go there.'

'Indeed. I am your guide to this Heaven, though, and if you come with me I will see what we can do to aid you.'

'And if I don't come with you?'

The basilisk flipped its wings closed, flight feathers crossing over its back. The sequiny scales on the tail, she saw, made a reticulated pattern in unpigmented white and silver, the bluer, grayer scales showing the color of the blood beneath.

'Your sister is sick,' it said. 'If you do not come with me, what will you do?'

It waited a moment, as if it actually expected her to answer. And when she didn't, its tail uncoiled from the branch with all the sleekness of a heavy-bodied snake, the undersurface hollowing, pulling broad scales into an arch. It launched itself into the air, circled—over Rien's head, but not passing over Perceval—and reversed direction.

It beat away on heavy wings, ten meters along a bare root-raddled trail and then a pause, ten more and then another. Rien watched it.

It never glanced back.

Rien stood. She reached back among the parasite wings and took Perceval's limp hand, and stepped forward. The construct shivered, and seemed as if it would edge back. It leaned away from the basilisk like a cringing dog, she thought, hoping not to be noticed.

She said, 'Stop it. Hurry up. Come on.' And the parasite wings—more spider legs now—reluctantly stepped with her, as if Perceval were a leash and she led them at heel.

Another step, and another. And then, if she wanted to keep the basilisk in sight, she was committed. If you're walking, you might as well walk, she thought, and strode out as if she meant to get somewhere.

Under trees and beside the vine-hung wall, following the blind monster. The pinions—Pinion, Rien told herself firmly; giving it a name of its own could only help to separate it from Perceval, and Rien wanted to keep them separate in her head—minced along, the girl dangling beneath them like an overripe fruit from the tree. In gravity, Perceval no longer floated in a loose fetal position. Now her arms and legs dangled, her head bouncing on her neck no matter how smoothly Pinion moved.

The earth was level once Rien was on the trail, packed and warm, the bark worn from the roots by many soles. Still, bare feet were not the best for this, and the second or third time she stubbed her toe, she whimpered.

And then bit her lip, as the basilisk turned back to her.

Perhaps the stop had roused her slightly, but Perceval made a mewing sound and pushed petulantly at Rien's hand.

'She's so sick,' Rien said, as the basilisk stared with tight-shut eyes.

It nodded. 'Then please hurry.' And set off again, twice as fast this time.

Perceval still hurt: a different kind of hurting now. It was not the pain of ongoing injury, but the ache of abused muscles at rest, a reminder of recent damage rather than the thing itself. And she was warm in the mantle of her wings, and lying peacefully in shade.

Vaguely, she remembered a march, dizziness and nausea and shaking chill. But not now; now there was a soft pallet and green leaves and the clean scent of air in a planted habitat.

Rien must have brought them somewhere safe. The pain was almost pleasant, when Perceval thought of it that way.

She rolled onto her back, and recalled doing so that the wings wrapping her weren't her wings. Her belly clenched. She wondered if it would ever stop hurting like that, every time she remembered.

But she was dressed now, loose trousers and a long-sleeved halter top that tied at the waist and kept her blessedly warm for the first time in ... the first time since she had been captured. She was in a clearing, on a pallet on soft moss, and woven sunshades were suspended above her from cords strung to tree limbs. Chips of light fell through them. A cicada droned. Underneath it, Perceval heard faint strains of music, flute and guitar.

And Rien was nowhere in sight.

Heart pounding, Perceval sat up. And almost vomited, a thin flavor of bile filling her foul-tasting mouth. Her eyes were crusted and gummy, her teeth disgusting. She couldn't imagine what might keep her symbiont colony so busy as to neglect hygiene. Her skin was clean, though, and she smelled soap; someone had bathed her. And there was water beside her, a pitcher on a low tray, room temperature but—by the smell—laced with crushed mint leaves.

She dabbed her fingers in the water and scrubbed her eyes, her face, the crusted lips. She picked out the mint leaves and chewed them, and then, crosslegged and hunched between the straggle of her parasite wings, she cradled the pitcher on her shins and bent forward to drink from the edge until she'd gotten enough out of it to lift the entire thing and drink. It was heavy, the metal surface dewed with condensation.

The water inside didn't taste of aluminum, though; the pitcher was lined in glass. It all went into her* except rivulets that ran down her chin on each side and spattered her shirt.

She could have drunk more.

Feeling better, Perceval set the pitcher down. She gathered herself and stood, feeling attenuated and rickety. When she wobbled, the wings fanned and caught her.

Strange, to realize that they did so and caused no pain. Perceval reached over her shoulder and felt the root of the stump, where her own warm wings had grown. They seamed imperceptibly into her flesh, flexible at the point of contact, only growing cool and hard by stages as she ran her fingers as high along the leading edge as she could reach.

Wounds dealt by an unblade were not amenable to regeneration, and they were not supposed to take a prosthesis. They healed only with difficulty, and often bled like stigmata intermittently for years. Sometimes, a deeper amputation would provoke better healing. Sometimes.

The unblade's program was designed to disrupt symbionts. They were colonies themselves, and from what Perceval had heard, ones with dark and aggressive personalities. She was lucky the wound hadn't become toxic.

The thought triggered a contrary memory. Poison had gotten into the wound, hadn't it? She'd been fevered. There had been a gunfight. She couldn't actually recall.

That would explain why she felt so achy and sluggish, like a Mean the morning after a beating, and why her symbiont had failed her.

Trailing her inexplicable wings behind her, either still thirsty or thirsty again, she went in search of the musicians. She would panic later. She would remain calm, now.

The trees bore bud, flower, and fruit on the same branches. She recognized peach, olive, almond, the tallest more than twice her height. The trunks were thicker than those at home. Gravity here was heavier, and as she