Dust

And deep into her crystal body poured

The hot and sorrowful sweetness of the dust.

—EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY,

'Oh, Sleep Forever in the Latmian Cave'

Pinion told Dust everything, including his name.

It was a good name, Dust judged, as Dust judged such things. He had never been able to name things himself—he was, after all, in chief a sort of archivist—but as with many archivists, a good irony and good pun delighted him.

Take the name of the world, for example, half of which was half of Dust's own name. Jacob's Ladder. One thing that was many things, and a name most carefully chosen. Because Jacob's ladder was the ladder angels ascended to reach Heaven; and it was also the breaking of sun rays through cloud, planetside (not that Dust had ever seen such, but there were images in his memory); and it was a rope ladder, such as used to ascend into the rigging of a sailing ship; it was a fumbling primitive body modification that humans had performed upon themselves—and that , was significant, because humans were the only animals to mutilate themselves on purpose, or to direct their own evolution, although in those days the Exalt had been but a dream; it was a toy, an amusement; and in the name of the world, it was a promise and a benediction and an allegory.

Because the Jacob's ladder in the name of the world was all of these things, and none. The ladder these angels must climb was the double helix. And then they would be God. They, who were splinters of God.

God, who was dead. And what should be done about it, none of his splinters could agree.

Dust thanked Pinion—it was childish and simple yet, but learning, and it could relate what it had seen—and then he began to discorporate.

He knew where Samael's holde lay, and more than that he was certain he would not have to seek even so far. There would be outliers and sentries, and Dust's own self-stuff would meet up with his brother's before he sought too far.

But if Samael could barge into Dust's house, Dust could barge into Samael's.

He was strong, as strong as ever his counterpart. He would believe it. And he would believe as well that Samael needed him.

Dust came apart and filtered through the world. And when he came to the house of Samael, he did not pause, not even to gather his courage. He rolled forward on a manufactured wave of high pressure, and he swept Samael's servants and fragments before.

Samael's holde was a Heaven, as besuited the Angel of Life Support Services. And he was waiting when Dust arrived, already coalesced, arms crossed, wearing his green velvet coat and vast ragged raven wings.

For a picosecond, Dust considered the rudeness of re fusing to take shape. He could hover over Samael, pluck at his limp blond locks, tweak the lace at his sleeves. He could make his displeasure known. It would be satisfying.

But it would gain him nothing.

With a sigh, he settled on a shape, and formed. Not a human shape and not the angel-shape Samael mocked, however.

Dust made of himself a dragon.

His wings would span the holde, if he unfolded them. His barbed and rebarbed head bent low on a black- mailed neck. He wore horns like an oryx and barbels like a catfish, and his breast was scaled in silver.

He massed no more than a pony, but there was something to be said for psychological warfare.

'A whole holde,' Dust said. 'All that Heaven, and only for your creature.'

'My creature?' Samael craned his neck back to see him, but showed no fear. A shape was only a mask, to be discarded upon an instant. Dust could well imagine Samael reciting that truth to himself.

'Mallory,' Dust hissed. 'And the familiar basilisk. You sent my maidens to them.'

'My maidens? The world's maidens, surely. Do you begrudge them a little assistance, a little education?'

'That is no Ben Kenobi. More une belle quelquesome-thing sans merci.'

'The question stands, my dearest Dust.' When Samael uncrossed his arms, it was to stand hipshot, balanced on the toes of one bare foot and the heel of the other. He had simulated transparent silver toenail polish.

Dust might have said that Samael lied, but in truth he had not, really. He had omitted, but by the most strict definition that was not providing false information. And that was what the ancient lingering protocols forbade them. The builders must never have imagined that the world might find itself not only fragmented, but wishing to lie between modules.

'Yes,' he said, because he had to say it. 'I begrudge your assistance. And I begrudge Mallory.'

'Tough,' Samael said. He stepped forward, bounced up on his toes, and planted a kiss on Dust's scaly cheek. 'I know you want to be the last angel standing. But brother, so do I.'

Even if Rien awoke sore and sticky, it was a better awakening than the last. The wood was quiet. No birds sang, and the shade under the trees had deepened. A shadow panel must have crossed the suns, and the sudden cool twilight had awakened her.

She reached out casually behind and found, not Perceval—whose lap she recalled falling asleep in—but the warm wooden neck of Mallory's guitar.

Rien had never played such an instrument before. Her learning had been done on student pieces, plastic guitars suitable for a Mean. But this was real wood, not manufactured. It had a completely different tone.

She was grateful in her bones to have been allowed to play it. And more grateful still that Mallory had seen fit to leave it by her while she slept. That hinted at offered trust, which Rien was in no position to turn away from.

But what she wanted was Perceval.

Carefully, Rien rolled onto her back. The ground was soft, but her hip hurt from sleeping on it. And the muscles of arms and legs, belly and back and neck, ached more. Something bound her sore left arm. She wondered how many days she'd lain ill. Perceval had recovered incredibly fast.

But Perceval was Exalt.

As she lay dizzy, staring at the canopy and waiting for it to stop whirling and breathing the buttery scent of almond blossoms (when you are drunk, Rien remembered, put one foot flat on the floor, and she drew her knee up to press her sole against the blanket under her), she heard something deft and heavy beat away through the air. Gavin, she hoped, leaving to tell the others she'd awakened.

Rien's heart beat faster. She worked her dry mouth; her eyes and lips were not very crusty, though.

Maybe she had the strength to rise and find water.

Maybe she wouldn't have to.

Footsteps approached, soft and sure. They were not Perceval's, and Rien was surprised to find she knew her sister's tread already. She lifted herself on her elbows as Mallory's face hove into view, a pale oval nacreous through the gloaming.

The necromancer dropped on crossed legs beside Rien, thumping into moss and leaf litter. Skinny, agile hands disarrayed the blankets and tugged Rien's arm free; watching their impersonal touch, she discovered that her arm was bandaged. There were tubes, needles, which Mallory slid out as deftly as Doctor could have, back in Rule.

Rien almost thought, back home. But that was wrong, wasn't it? 'Thank you,' she said. 'How long was I sick?'

Mallory's face went briefly vague, as those of Exalts could do when they consulted their internal worlds. 'Seven hours.'

'Oh. But I had the flu? The same flu Perceval did.' Which had left her unconscious for half a day.

'Perceval was weakened,' Mallory said. 'You were only hungry and tired.'