avenge my parents.”
The Guardian narrowed his eyes, watching Chance closely.
“The True Book tells that revenge and vengeful thoughts are sins,” Chance explained. “But only against people. Against an enemy of God, against a false god, the True God asks that we be justly vengeful. I want to avenge this wrong. For my father.”
The Guardian nodded slowly. “I know nothing of a greatest god, nor of your holy book, nor even of grapes and wine and Purimen funerals. But an earned wrath, Puriman,
an earned wrath
—this I understand.”
CHAPTER
8
“W ake,” the Guardian said. Chance sat up. The Guardian peered out into the forest, his back to Chance. Seth stood erect next to Chance, ears bent forward, and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Chance rose uneasily. Cramps knotted his left arm and leg, where he had lain on the cold ground. His stomach pained him with hunger. His headache had returned with a fierce intensity.
“Something comes.”
“What?”
The Guardian did not answer. Behind them, birds sang loudly with their morning calls, but before them the forest fell silent.
The wood was ancient here. It retained the last of the summer’s lush and green foliage, but the towering trees held the thick canopy high above. The morning light sloped in under the treetops, gold over the green fronds of the ferns covering the floor. It shimmered on the millions of white spider threads bridging the underbrush.
A hundred paces away, two ferns parted, and someone pushed through. Chance could not at first discern whether it was a woman or man. The skin of the person had a strange golden color, almostseeming to glow. Gold hair hung at shoulder length. As the person drew closer, Chance could see the delicate, symmetrical features of the face. He decided this was a woman, though not a Truman.
“What do you want with us, makina?” the Guardian called when she had closed half the distance.
She did not answer at first, but continued and stopped only two paces before them. She looked with pale silver eyes at Chance, then the Guardian. She wore black pants, black boots, a white shirt with small black buttons and a thin black band around the collar, all under a black jacket with long tails—to Chance this dress resembled the kind of rich formal suit he had once observed Trumen wearing to church in the city by the Freshsea. It looked strange, even ridiculous, here in the forest.
“I have searched for you, Guardian.”
Again Chance was confused. Her voice rang with a clear, beautiful bell tone that could be male or female. But the complete placidity of her face unsettled Chance more than the unnatural symmetry of the androgynous features, or the strangely bright skin.
They stared at each other awhile before the Guardian spoke.
“What do you want?”
“I endeavor to offer assistance.”
The Guardian frowned. “Don’t waste our time with wieldless words. What do you know of the splinter of the god?”
“It is part of the Hexus,” she said. “The sixth of the seven Thei.”
“Ah.” The Guardian yielded a slight smile. “So the Makine do know something.”
“We have observed him for some weeks, watching from the skies. It was here that we recognized you.”
“The metal bird!” Chance said.
The strange woman looked at him. “Yes.” Her silver eyes shifted back to the Guardian. “That was a sentient being that you destroyed.”
Seth slipped around behind Chance, and began to circle their clearing, sniffing the air.
“Wolves,” Seth growled. “Nearby. Upwind.”
“How did you find us?” the Guardian asked.
“I conversed with several of the.…” She hesitated over the word, looking at Chance as if determining how best to continue. “Soulburdened.”
Chance wondered why the wolves would offer to help her. Or had she paid them somehow?
“What care do the Makine have in this?” the Guardian asked. “Why do you skulk about the skies above my head? You would not fight in the Theomachia. Always
The Guardian narrowed his eyes, watching Chance closely.
“The True Book tells that revenge and vengeful thoughts are sins,” Chance explained. “But only against people. Against an enemy of God, against a false god, the True God asks that we be justly vengeful. I want to avenge this wrong. For my father.”
The Guardian nodded slowly. “I know nothing of a greatest god, nor of your holy book, nor even of grapes and wine and Purimen funerals. But an earned wrath, Puriman,
an earned wrath
—this I understand.”
CHAPTER
8
“W ake,” the Guardian said. Chance sat up. The Guardian peered out into the forest, his back to Chance. Seth stood erect next to Chance, ears bent forward, and sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Chance rose uneasily. Cramps knotted his left arm and leg, where he had lain on the cold ground. His stomach pained him with hunger. His headache had returned with a fierce intensity.
“Something comes.”
“What?”
The Guardian did not answer. Behind them, birds sang loudly with their morning calls, but before them the forest fell silent.
The wood was ancient here. It retained the last of the summer’s lush and green foliage, but the towering trees held the thick canopy high above. The morning light sloped in under the treetops, gold over the green fronds of the ferns covering the floor. It shimmered on the millions of white spider threads bridging the underbrush.
A hundred paces away, two ferns parted, and someone pushed through. Chance could not at first discern whether it was a woman or man. The skin of the person had a strange golden color, almostseeming to glow. Gold hair hung at shoulder length. As the person drew closer, Chance could see the delicate, symmetrical features of the face. He decided this was a woman, though not a Truman.
“What do you want with us, makina?” the Guardian called when she had closed half the distance.
She did not answer at first, but continued and stopped only two paces before them. She looked with pale silver eyes at Chance, then the Guardian. She wore black pants, black boots, a white shirt with small black buttons and a thin black band around the collar, all under a black jacket with long tails—to Chance this dress resembled the kind of rich formal suit he had once observed Trumen wearing to church in the city by the Freshsea. It looked strange, even ridiculous, here in the forest.
“I have searched for you, Guardian.”
Again Chance was confused. Her voice rang with a clear, beautiful bell tone that could be male or female. But the complete placidity of her face unsettled Chance more than the unnatural symmetry of the androgynous features, or the strangely bright skin.
They stared at each other awhile before the Guardian spoke.
“What do you want?”
“I endeavor to offer assistance.”
The Guardian frowned. “Don’t waste our time with wieldless words. What do you know of the splinter of the god?”
“It is part of the Hexus,” she said. “The sixth of the seven Thei.”
“Ah.” The Guardian yielded a slight smile. “So the Makine do know something.”
“We have observed him for some weeks, watching from the skies. It was here that we recognized you.”
“The metal bird!” Chance said.
The strange woman looked at him. “Yes.” Her silver eyes shifted back to the Guardian. “That was a sentient being that you destroyed.”
Seth slipped around behind Chance, and began to circle their clearing, sniffing the air.
“Wolves,” Seth growled. “Nearby. Upwind.”
“How did you find us?” the Guardian asked.
“I conversed with several of the.…” She hesitated over the word, looking at Chance as if determining how best to continue. “Soulburdened.”
Chance wondered why the wolves would offer to help her. Or had she paid them somehow?
“What care do the Makine have in this?” the Guardian asked. “Why do you skulk about the skies above my head? You would not fight in the Theomachia. Always
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