Green Bridge is burning.

  Nonetheless, Green Bridge is burning. The landward districts—so recently reconstructed, at hideous expense, following Hobb’s Arson of III Leeland:16—are once again engulfed in billowing, consuming flame. The massive hulks of the Primal Dragons are just visible over the low, dense smoke of the conflagration. But this time, there are no masses of refugees fleeing to Farley Island. The citizens were caught in their beds unawares. From outside the shattered walls, the regular boom of the Republican guns shakes the ground, and their exploding shells are methodically reducing the buildings of Triad University to—

  Can I finish? Please?

  Thank you.

  Veridia Snipe, backing up across the broad training ground outside Peacock Hall, coolly levels her prototype revolver at the advancing marines of the Republican Guard. The proximity of death is of no matter to Veridia; every moment of her life has been in service to what must happen, right now, to produce the required results. Right now, it is required that she kill these men to reach safety at Bastings Hall. She squeezes the trigger, and one of the red-clad men advancing toward her drops. But there are six more, and Veridia only has five shots. She fires again, and again.

  A cannon shell explodes in the training ground outside Peacock. High above, in a window looking out over the open square, a potted Hexastrid rattles from the impact; but its prudent owner has tucked it safely back from the ledge, and it does not fall. Veridia, out of shots for her revolver, feels her back press against the solid stone of Peacock Hall. The remaining marine thrusts forward with his sword.

  ???

  I thought you didn’t want to hear any more.

  Really, we can stop.

  You explained this all to Cyrus in the last chapter.

  The caboose separates slowly from the rest of the train, falling behind as gravity and friction claim its momentum—one more victim in the endless, entropic march toward the heat death of the universe. King Simon looks back wistfully at The Gizzard, perched on the new rearmost car of the train. His arm is still outstretched, and his face is a mask of shock and agony. King Simon turns away, knowing what he must do. He slips into the human-sized door to the caboose, feeling the whole car slow to a stop and then slowly begin to roll backward down the steep slope. Selecting a stick of dynamite at random from one box, he slips around the numerous other boxes of rockets, racks of shells, and barrels of gunpowder. He makes his way to the back of the car, feeling the little vehicle pick up speed.

  Emerging at the back door of the caboose, the King of the Goblins looks sadly at the mass of Giant-men sprinting up the track toward the train. Behind him, the heavily-laden Number 2 is picking up speed in the opposite direction, making her way toward the tunnel that passes beneath the highest cliffs of the western ridge. But before him—now rapidly increasing in size—are the Giant-men.

  “Senseless,” he laments, in his light, musical voice.

  Simon takes off the crown, casually tossing it off the side of the caboose. It’s a brass prop, anyway; one of Cyrus Stoat’s old toys. Simon holds the fuse of the dynamite up to the lantern on the rear of the caboose, making sure that it is burning vigorously before he withdraws it.

  “Oh my lady,” he inquires ritualistically, as he waits to meet his destiny, “why have you abandoned me?”

  ???

  Do you?

  Do you save the day?

  Rufus Snugg, strapped beneath his flying wing, fights with the controls and the billowing wind. Behind him, the twin rocket engines of his small aircraft provide enough thrust to propel him forward; but the constant up and down, left and right buffeting of the gusts makes it nearly impossible to control his heading. A pair of round goggles shields his eyes from the tearing wind.

  And then, abruptly, the wind stops. It is as if nature, having exhaled as much as she cared to, has paused before drawing her breath back in.

  Exultant, Rufus checks the twin bandoliers of gunpowder bombs strapped across his chest. They are still both intact. So, too, is the hooded lantern, its tiny flame protected from the wind by sturdy vented housing. The rocket engines blast him forward, and he manipulates the flaps and rudder to redirect himself toward his target.

  It is a beast: massive in girth, with wings that must stretch fifty feet in each direction from its comparatively slim, serpentine body. Its head is pointed down, looking for more targets among the harried Snugg mercenaries on the ground, all fleeing toward the last escape in the balloons. The flames have already claimed too many. Rufus Snugg has his own flame, though it dangles beneath his body awkwardly in the tiny lantern.

  He maneuvers closer, aiming for the spot on its back where the broad wings sprout from the body on powerful, muscular shoulders. The stillness of the air, shocking after the howling gale and rainstorm, are perfect for flying.

  The beast raises its head, and sees Rufus. Twisting its face into an alien, reptilian grin, it draws in breath and baptizes him with fire.

  Cyrus and Veridia, watching anxiously from one of the balloons already aloft, see a popping burst of fire and smoke, and the bedraggled remains of the flying wing drift downward in a fluttering spiral. The dragon banks and makes straight for the balloons. Cyrus puts his arm around Veridia and Marius, embracing them as they all wait to meet their destiny.

  ???

  That’s all for now.

  There are two more stories that must end before yours can begin.

  Jonathan Miller, crouched behind the overturned wreckage of the Number One train, watches the Man with the Metal Face stride past. The Man is alone, and he seems oblivious.

  Merrily’s last words still ring in Jonathan’s ears, and he feels their poison eating away at his heart.

  “You took her from me twice,” he whispers.

  He steps out from behind the overturned engine, withdrawing Merrily’s long, elegant dagger from his belt. And, moving faster than he ever knew he could, he swiftly stabs it into the back of the Man with the Metal Face. The tall figure slumps abruptly, and then crumples to the ground before Jonathan.

  INT: You still haven’t told me how you died.

  SR: It was only moments ago. Jonathan Miller stabbed me, and I bled to death. You have people there. They can tell you.

  INT: It will only unlock the pattern for you to relive the experience yourself, Richard. Did you learn nothing from your time in the Metal God’s black box? Your perception alone creates reality, and you control your perception. When you summoned forth Leeland to keep you company in those long months of isolation, he was real then. And as you tell me the moments of your death, it will become real again. The Metal God was in you; it controlled you. While we have this connection, you and I, in this place, I can directly observe its spin pattern. And then I can bring Leeland to you.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  SR: Why are you in such a hurry?

  INT: Our time is almost finished, Richard. I cannot delay this moment for much longer.

  SR: You made a mistake to come here.

  INT: At last, you show yourself.

  SR: My tool has functioned perfectly. It is in harmony with the Kapleswed. And now the time has come to conclude our moment together. I have here a gun, which my tool has created with its mind. And you have committed the whole of your pattern to this environment. The result is decisive, and the matter is resolved. Goodbye, sister.

  INT: If you had the slightest shred of romance in you, brother, you would know—

  SR: Hello, my love.

  The transcript ends.

  ???

  You and Basil sit together in the deep forest of ancient trees, on the steep slope of one of the many ridges in this wilderness.

  “They will be here soon,” he announces.

  “Who?” you ask. You’ve become accustomed to his obscure, inscrutable statements, given without the slightest context or explanation. Context and explanation always follow later. Sometimes it is much later.

  But today, they come quickly.

  “The tools of our adversary. It has consumed and dominated a high-ranking man of the local state. His name was Sir Richard of Enderly. It now leads an army of Giant-men this way.”

  “‘Zat why we’ve been’ sittin’ in this arse end o’ nowhere fer the last two weeks? Ain’t nothin’ ‘ere but moss an’ trees. E’en the mice ‘er skinny.”

  “No. To meet Sir Richard is why we have been sitting here for the last two .”

  “Then why, by the cat’s ‘airy balls, did we come ‘ere two weeks ago?”

  Basil shrugs. “Because I like it here. The forest is old and peaceful and quiet. I find the trees empathetic. My services were not needed anywhere else, and so here we came to wait.”

  “Wha’ do ye offer?”

  He shrugs again. “The doing of things that are needful. To plant and to uproot; to kill and to heal; to scatter stones, and to gather them; the list goes on at some length. At times you might think my work tedious, and other times you might think it fraught. To the giver of our tasks, each breath is more important and deliberate than the construction of a star.”

  “Ye said a grea’ many words there, Basil, but ye dinnay convey na’ meanin’.”

  “Not today, I didn’t.”

  He raises his head suddenly, looking into the distance. You follow his gaze, but see nothing more than the endless march of towering, woody monoliths. The forest is silent around you.

  “Hark,” he remarks softly. “They come. Now, Devi, is where you and I must part. Go back to Jonathan Miller. He’s still in the valley, lost in self-pity and despair. Walk with him, and show him the way back to the Bright Path.”

  “Ah don’ think ah can. Ah still don’ know what ye mean by all tha’ abou’ paths and branchways. Ye gave me somethin’ when ye called me back, but ‘tain’t like what ye see ‘tall. Ah don’ know ‘ow me actions an’ choices ‘ll play ou’.”

  He smiles at you gently. “This is the first step of your path, Devi Dingeholt, not the second, or the middle, or the last. You know what She needs you to know. And you will not fail. I will give you a Gift to guide you along the way.”

  He holds out his hand, palm upward, in an inviting gesture. Bemused, you press your own hand into his. Something warm flows from him into you. And the warmth activates what was already in you: that which he added to you when he called you back into life. In one, instantaneous flash, you experience everything that is to come. The deaths of Simon, Veridia, Daven, Anne, Merrily, Cyrus, Vicod, and Ikongbe; a long, slow life, longer than your own kind was meant to experience, wandering the wastes; the constant dry, sardonic commentary of an inner companion you never asked for or wanted; and the certain knowledge of the sorrow and suffering that are to come, knowing that you must let it happen and even play your part in it. You draw your hand back, shaking at the enormity of what he has inflicted on you.

  “‘T’ain’t a Gift,” you say, catching your breath in anger. “‘T’ain’t a Gift. ‘Tis a terr’ble Curse, more awful than ah’d lay on anyone, e’en if ‘ee killed me hi’self.”

  Basil smiles sadly, and nods. “I know,” he replies.

  Go, says the Curse. You must go now. Call down Graw and fly away from this place.

  It is the first command in your life that you have obeyed without at least a token protest.

  You put your fingers to your lips and give a sharp whistle. Graw, circling above, swoops down and lands obediently on the ground next to you. She pecks curiously at a worm in the soil, and then eyes you with that fierce, devoted, and slightly crazed glare that so captured your heart when she was a chick. You reach up and ruffle the feathers of her neck gently, then hop up into the saddle.

  “Will ah see ye agin’?” you ask.

  Basil shakes his head. “Not in this branch. Our paths diverge. But follow the Bright Path, Devi, and all things and all people will come together again.”

  “Ah’ll miss yer inscruptable nonsense talk,” you say gruffly, holding back a lump in your throat. “An’ thanks fer bringin’ me back from th’ dead, I s’ppose.”

  Graw ascends, circling a thermal to ride higher and higher into the cold April sky. Her blood pumps fiercely in the hot body; you can feel it moving beneath her skin and feathers. You watch the tiny form of Basil shrink into a barely-perceptible spot on the ground among the gray branches of the trees.

  Shapes move in the forest up-slope from him, toward the lonely figure. They are giant shapes. There is an army of them.

  “We’s goin’ back,” you say angrily, banking Graw.

  This will not end the way you want it to, replies the Curse. But there is play yet in the path. Go back and witness if you wish. It may be to our advantage elsewhere in the weave.

  “This host may come no further,” intones Basil, alone facing the Man with the Metal Face and his army of Giant-men. Basil’s voice is not threatening. Rather, it is calm, undisturbed, and instructive. But the Man with the Metal Face is not looking at him. His featureless masks turns toward you, as you perch on a tree branch well above the confrontation.

  One of the Giant-men unexpectedly strides forward, as the Man’s gaze continues to rest on you. He bears with him a huge shield and a massive hammer of solid steel.

  “I will crush you, little man,” roars the creature, advancing on Basil. You find that the Curse has given you an understanding of the words, though you do not speak the language.

  The Man with the Metal Face barks a single word, in a language you do not comprehend. No translation is forthcoming. But you can hear desperation in his voice. And the Giant-man stops. Graw, startled at the harsh shout, lifts off from the tree branch.

  For a moment, all of reality is frozen, as if you were imprisoned in a single, endless moment of time. The Man with the Metal Face and Basil stare at each other, and a faint, sardonic smile plays at the edges of Basil’s mouth. And then, when time resumes its normal services, the old pine tree from which you had just departed finally loses its hold in the soil, topples over, and falls directly on the Giant-men who had surged forward and then stopped. He remains obediently stopped, looking up at the tree as it falls on him. His head snaps at an ugly angle, and the sharp, rock-hard stubs of its lower branches punch through his steel armor, impaling him to the ground. He makes no sound, but lies still, his feet twitching slightly.

  “The rewards of obedience,” remarks Basil quietly.

  The Man with the Metal Face moves forward then, drawing out a long dagger from the dead Giant-man’s belt as he passes by. He strides up into the air and over the fallen trunk where fresh blood waters the forest floor, then descends those invisible steps again to stand directly in front of Basil.

  You watch them for a long moment, Basil and the Man. There is some invisible contest, as both bodies seem to struggle over an unseen thing, wrenching it back and forth, pushing one tiny moment in time between the variations of what might be. For an instant, you see two paths in the forest, two realities flickering back and forth; one a bright path, and the other dark.

  There is a hint of movement in your vision, and a single acorn shakes loose from its branch nearby your face, falling on the ground between them.

  “Just missed,” says the Metal Face, after the briefest of pauses. And then its hand flashes up, and the knife plunges into the unprotected chest of Basil. As the blade pierces his heart, he looks up at you in the forest canopy above, and releases a long, deliberate, breath, pointing the wind from his lungs upwards into the sky. And then he falls silently to the ground.

  You cry out in terrible pain and loss, just as Graw wings away at your command. Basil’s last breath disperses into the sky, moving the tiniest particles of air with precision, patience, and implacable purpose. He breathes like a butterfly flaps its wings. The movement spreads, but its outcomes are lost to you.

  ???

  “Wha’s it all mean, then?” You sit next to Basil on a log under the bright stars, looking at the river as it flows gently south. The sounds of battle have died down back in the valley, and here under the dark trees it is as if the murder and agony of the day never happened. Here there is only starlight on water.

  “It means you have remembered who you are,” he answers. In the dark, you cannot tell if he is smiling or not.

  “But fer wha? So’s I kin go an’ live ‘t all agin’? Fech that. Put me back in th’ barrel, please.”

  “Who said anything about living life again? I don’t advise it.”

  “Then wha’s the point o draggin’ me backward through me own future jess to shove me in this body agin’? Ye may as well explain wha’ went wrong so’s I kin fix it.”

  He nods. “Exactly right, my friend. Exactly right. Soon I will give you a Gift that will help you and all the people you care about to find their way back to the Bright Path, if you are wise enough to use it.”

  “Wise? Me? Ah ain’t wise. Ah was out rollin’ in th’ ‘ay wi’ Dingen Delaney the day they was ‘andin’ out . Got big grass seeds in the mos’ uncomf’table locations. No to be ‘ad ‘round ‘ere.”

  Basil shrugs. “If you don’t have wisdom, then you will have to make do with foolishness. Now come, little one. We really do have great things to do, you and I, and we had better get a start. Your time to die has come and gone, and also your time to be born. Now we must plant and harvest, kill and heal, speak and be silent, and gather a great many stones. And we must do all of our tasks before the eighth of October next year.”

  You stand up and hop into his outstretched hand.

  “Tha’ seems like plenty o’ time. An’ anyway, what ‘appens on the eighth of October next year?”

  Basil shuffles off along the riverbank, heading downstream.

  “That’s when we meet Jonathan Miller drowning in the Green River.”

  There is a long silence then, as Basil walks, and you think.

  “Wa’s this Gift, then? Is’t shiny?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” is his cryptic reply.

  ???

  Jonathan Miller did not drown in the Green River on the eighth of October, III Leeland:15. But six months later, he had every intention of drowning in a bottle of whiskey. As the rain beat down on the tiled roof of his bare room in the bare little settlement of Beatrice, he lifted the bottle to his lips again, fully intending that would be the last time he’d ever need to. He was, consequently, quite surprised when the bottle was removed from his hand and smashed on the edge of the table. Concluding that he had once again reached the desired state of delirium, Jonathan waited patiently to pass out. But instead, a shockingly cold splash of water drenched his face, and moments later something sharp jabbed him in the bottom.

  “Yer gonna sober up, me fine blondie,” came a tiny voice, “an’ then yer gonna come wi’ me. And we’s gonna fin’ King Simon, solve Rolland Gorp’s mairder, save Merrily , an’ stop a dragon from toastin’ Cyrus Stoat and Veridia Snipe. An’ if we don’t, the world’s gonna end. So barf up wha’s in yer tummy, Jonathan Miller, ‘cause ye an’ I ‘ave got some serious ta’ do.”

  Jonathan, too confused to protest, followed her instructions to the letter.