the Order, shepherding the earliest years of the refugees who wandered the ashes of the Old World. Neb, the orphan boy, somehow caught up in the roles of Homeseeker to some and Abomination to others. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he believed it; and that faith disturbed him.
He looked to Rafe. “Bring the men in,” he said. “Tell them to get some sleep.”
Petronus then turned to the small pile of belongings he’d salvaged from the larger pile of cargo. He pulled free his bedroll and opened it, spreading it out in the soft green grass. He left his clothes on and stretched out with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the sky. That broken world hung low now, and he saw unfamiliar seas and large islands scattered over it. In the middle of the sea, something white caught his eye.
His mind went back to Neb. He wasn’t sure what the mechoservitor meant exactly by “regenerating”—he suspected in Neb’s case it was about more than sleep—but he did understand the dreaming. And if Neb dreamed in the aether, there was no telling what the boy was experiencing. Petronus’s own forays into that surreal space had reproduced his papal office, had shown him things he should not be able to see.
And voices I should not hear.
The old man tossed and turned, the itch of the scar on his neck unbearable and his mind racing. Finally, he sat up and reached for his pouch. He rummaged through it until he found the wad of cloth and drew it out carefully. Then, he unwrapped the tiny black kin-raven slowly. Glancing once more toward the mechoservitors who kept watch, Petronus slipped the token into his palm. He felt the slightest tingle as it touched his skin, and he shivered, suddenly chilled despite the heat of the night. He forced his fist to close around it and lay back down.
He bent his mind forward and focused on the sharp-edged carving in his hand. Neb.
Nothing.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried again. This time, he whispered the name as he thought it. “ Nebios. ”
When it happened, it was sudden and jarring. He found himself suddenly surrounded by hot wind, his robes flowing around him. He stood upon the top of a tower the color of bone, a dead world suspended above him, casting a dim light over a jungle far below that whispered as it was savaged by the storm. The first warm rain began to fall.
A woman’s voice, flooded with rage, rose above the roaring of the rising typhoon. It was nearly a shriek, and he jumped at it. “You do not belong here,” she said.
Petronus spun around reaching for a sword he did not have, and he saw her. She was at least ten years his senior, her white hair wild and tangled, her skin sagging with age. She wore a tattered robe that hung loose over her bony frame, and it took no Franci training to recognize the madness in her eyes. “You do not belong here,” she said again, pointing a long crooked finger at him.
Petronus took a step back, raising his hands. He opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off.
“You have no right,” she said. Then she raised her finger until it pointed at the dead world above. “Behold your home, Downunder. Behold your handiwork.”
He forced his eyes back to hers. “I’m looking for a friend,” he said. “Nebios Whym.”
Her eyes widened at the name. “Whym.” The anger drained from her voice until it was a whisper. “She told me one day Whym would come.”
Petronus blinked. “Who told you?”
But she didn’t answer; instead, her whisper became a singsong murmur. “Whym will come in the last days of Lasthome. A dream within a song shall bear him.” Then, her eyes came back to him. “Where is he? He must come to me. He must—”
A howling rose from far below them, cutting her off. The sound of it widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “Clumsy Downunder,” she said. “They’ve smelled you in the aether.”
More howls joined the first. “Who?”
“The Hounds of Shadrus,” she said. “They hunt you now.”
The
He looked to Rafe. “Bring the men in,” he said. “Tell them to get some sleep.”
Petronus then turned to the small pile of belongings he’d salvaged from the larger pile of cargo. He pulled free his bedroll and opened it, spreading it out in the soft green grass. He left his clothes on and stretched out with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the sky. That broken world hung low now, and he saw unfamiliar seas and large islands scattered over it. In the middle of the sea, something white caught his eye.
His mind went back to Neb. He wasn’t sure what the mechoservitor meant exactly by “regenerating”—he suspected in Neb’s case it was about more than sleep—but he did understand the dreaming. And if Neb dreamed in the aether, there was no telling what the boy was experiencing. Petronus’s own forays into that surreal space had reproduced his papal office, had shown him things he should not be able to see.
And voices I should not hear.
The old man tossed and turned, the itch of the scar on his neck unbearable and his mind racing. Finally, he sat up and reached for his pouch. He rummaged through it until he found the wad of cloth and drew it out carefully. Then, he unwrapped the tiny black kin-raven slowly. Glancing once more toward the mechoservitors who kept watch, Petronus slipped the token into his palm. He felt the slightest tingle as it touched his skin, and he shivered, suddenly chilled despite the heat of the night. He forced his fist to close around it and lay back down.
He bent his mind forward and focused on the sharp-edged carving in his hand. Neb.
Nothing.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried again. This time, he whispered the name as he thought it. “ Nebios. ”
When it happened, it was sudden and jarring. He found himself suddenly surrounded by hot wind, his robes flowing around him. He stood upon the top of a tower the color of bone, a dead world suspended above him, casting a dim light over a jungle far below that whispered as it was savaged by the storm. The first warm rain began to fall.
A woman’s voice, flooded with rage, rose above the roaring of the rising typhoon. It was nearly a shriek, and he jumped at it. “You do not belong here,” she said.
Petronus spun around reaching for a sword he did not have, and he saw her. She was at least ten years his senior, her white hair wild and tangled, her skin sagging with age. She wore a tattered robe that hung loose over her bony frame, and it took no Franci training to recognize the madness in her eyes. “You do not belong here,” she said again, pointing a long crooked finger at him.
Petronus took a step back, raising his hands. He opened his mouth to speak, and she cut him off.
“You have no right,” she said. Then she raised her finger until it pointed at the dead world above. “Behold your home, Downunder. Behold your handiwork.”
He forced his eyes back to hers. “I’m looking for a friend,” he said. “Nebios Whym.”
Her eyes widened at the name. “Whym.” The anger drained from her voice until it was a whisper. “She told me one day Whym would come.”
Petronus blinked. “Who told you?”
But she didn’t answer; instead, her whisper became a singsong murmur. “Whym will come in the last days of Lasthome. A dream within a song shall bear him.” Then, her eyes came back to him. “Where is he? He must come to me. He must—”
A howling rose from far below them, cutting her off. The sound of it widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “Clumsy Downunder,” she said. “They’ve smelled you in the aether.”
More howls joined the first. “Who?”
“The Hounds of Shadrus,” she said. “They hunt you now.”
The
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