Lamp wakes peacefully the following morning, gently rousing from a restful slumber. He can’t remember what he dreamed, if he dreamt at all, but a brow unfurrowed and a jaw not clenched suggest a night untroubled by nightmares. Inside his chest, he feels his heart beat calm and slow. His breath comes easy and relaxed. His only complaint is of a mild stiffness, but a languid stretch resolves that problem.
As his mind gradually transitions out of sleep into a drowsy consciousness, his senses sharpen in parity. Slowly resolving the details of his environment, he notes that his room is of a decent size and empty apart from himself. Daylight has not yet reached the edges of his shuttered window, but the darkness tells him little about the time.
Brushing away his mental cobwebs, Lamp reminds himself of where he is and why he’s there. The recollection sparks a pleasant flutter of excitement, but that happy feeling doesn’t last. In the next moment, he recalls where he's going and the task he’s expected to perform upon arrival. Only then does his dull anguish return.
Lying in bed with his limbs in disarray, staring upwards with bleary eyes at a ceiling too dim to resolve, Lamp digs at a question that got stuck beneath his skin last night. One he wasn’t able to resolve in the short span before he fell asleep.
Is he a coward?
No. Right?
He can’t be. He has enough courage to attempt things that terrify him. In the past week alone, he’s repeatedly proven his willingness to face great risks for the sake of his values and ambitions. He isn’t weak willed; he simply has a healthy sense of self-preservation. His fear of warlords, of one specific warlord, makes him rational. Sane. That’s all.
With that conviction established, Lamp can finally admit to himself that he’s terrified by the prospect of meeting Clearheart face to face. The longer that moment dwells in his mind, the larger it looms. His only consolation is the presumption that she doesn’t need a translator, meaning he’ll have no requirement to speak with her directly. She can treat him like he doesn’t exist, and he’ll do the same. That should work well enough, and if he gets scared anyway, he’ll just blame the woman’s magic.
Lamp smiles bitterly at his preemptive excuses, then forces his face to relax into a more pleasant expression. He breathes out slowly and looks up at the roof. Past it, really.
“Did you do this to me because I stopped praying?” He quietly asks the empty air.
He doesn’t get an answer, of course. The gods fell silent at the start of this era, and they will not speak again until the coming of the next. Though, even before the rupture, divinity was never so accommodating as to answer each and every mortal plea. All Lamp can do is to speak and hope. Maybe he’ll sense a presence if he’s lucky.
It’s been years since the former acolyte last achieved that sublime awareness, but it’s also been a long time since he last tried. Maybe, in these strange and trying days, it would do him good to pick up that old habit again.
Sitting up with a weary exhale, Lamp drags his cloak-come-blanket to the side. He kicks his legs free of the fabric before sliding them sidewise off the generous padding of his narrow klinē. His feet tap softly against the cold floor, and he slips out of bed.
The scholar closes his eyes and tilts his head back as if gazing upon the heavens through closed lids. He raises both arms above his head, his palms open and upturned. From that position, he mutters the first prayer he learned as a child.
“Mother protect me. Regent correct me. Mirror show me who I am. Wayward guide my steps. Artisan lead my hand.” He breathes in slowly then continues. “Great Ones, please forgive my long abeyance of prayer and my failure to present offerings. I will sacrifice my dreams when next I sleep.
“If you would hear my requests, I ask the following of you. Grant me discernment to know what’s right, courage to attempt it, and skill to see it through. Help me be of use to others and to myself, let your virtues grow in my heart and show through my deeds, and don’t let Clearheart eat me.”
Stifling a smile, he bows his head. “By your care, by your teachings, and by your silence: we endure, we prosper, and we grow. Thank you for these gifts. I will seek to use them well.”
With the prayer concluded, Lamp opens his eyes, lowers his hands, and gets started with his day. A few minutes later, after refreshing and dressing himself, he exits his room. A glance at the canyon walls confirms that the sun hasn’t risen yet, meaning he’s up ahead of schedule. Since he has no work to complete or belongings to collect before their departure, the rest of the morning should be his to while away however he pleases.
Lamp’s immediate objective is to purchase a warm breakfast. He briefly worries that no one in the settlement will be awake yet to sell him a meal, but a quick search down a familiar street thankfully proves him wrong. He finds the same vendor who made yesterday’s lunch prepping her stall for the day, and he happily waits a few minutes while she warms her clay oven with the heat grafts on her forearms.
After purchasing a sweet, doughy treat, Lamp chats with the middle-aged woman about her life in Wall Town. She tells him about their daily routines while he eats, and he asks a few questions between bites. Most of her answers match his expectations.
This isolated little village becomes a sleepy, quiet place between their employer’s visits. Most of the full-time residents practice a craft of some sort to keep themselves busy in the interim. They use most of those homemade goods themselves, trading between each other as necessary, but Blackwing purchases their surplus from time to time and sells it elsewhere at a presumably mediocre profit.
Wall Town’s tiny economy runs more on favors and barter than coin, so its residents don’t have much immediate use for their salaries. They either save their income or send it back to their families with the porter caravans, only spending the money themselves during their occasional return visits inside the caldera
On those trips, they tend not to travel beyond Blackwing’s port city. That modestly-sized but bustling trade center offers nearly everything a decent person might like to buy, so they have little reason to journey elsewhere - all the more so because passage to the city and back comes free with their positions, while travel outside it grows expensive.
Since the Wall Towners only ever take their vacations by the sea, they jokingly refer to the excursions as ‘shore leave.’
Lamp had finished his breakfast well before learning all of that information, but he sticks around to chat until another early customer eventually arrives. At that point, Lamp bids farewell to the vendor and heads off for a graft-lit stroll through the cave’s dim streets. His feet eventually lead him outward to Wall Town’s constructed bulwark, and he climbs an interior stairwell to stand atop the barricade.
What he can see of the sky has already lightened from black to bluish gray, though the dawn still hides away behind the maze of stone. Lamp spends a minute or two looking upwards and east, waiting for the first flash of sunlight to crest above the canyon walls, but he eventually gets bored of waiting and heads back to his quarters. He might not have anything to do there either, but he should rest until the hike starts.
Once back in his small room, Lamp passes a little time by performing tongue twisters in the old language. When that exercise eventually grows tiresome, he starts translating some of his favorite jokes in a way that preserves their humor. The puns provide an engaging challenge, though many of them prove impossible to interpret. He’s in the midst of contemplatively muttering a strained punchline when Blackwing finally knocks.
Lamp rises quickly and hurries to answer. Upon opening the door, he finds his employer standing beside Owl with her maid in tow. The former two are already dressed for travel.
A brief exchange of pleasantries follows while Lamp throws on his cloak, then the four of them walk together to the staging ground near the settlement’s gate. There, they find Blackwing’s porters either perched atop their heavy packs or else sitting on the ground and leaning against them. When the boss signals, his workers smoothly load up and prepare to move.
Lamp translates fond farewells between Owl and her attendant, then the gate swings open and their group departs. Wall Town grows steadily smaller behind them as they cross the flat expanse between its bulwark and the start of the canyon network. The last time Lamp looks back over his shoulder, the settlement looks like an anthill nestled at the base of a mighty fortress. Their path curves soon after, and the towering stone blocks their starting point from view.
A short while later, Owl moves closer to walk alongside Lamp.
“How far until the next settlement?” She asks him in a curious and cheerful tone.
“About two days.” Lamp answers directly without translating for Blackwing. “We’ll camp in the canyons tonight, and I expect we’ll begin scaling the mountain around midday tomorrow. Although, now that I think of it, we probably won’t climb up as quickly as we descended. My timeline was probably a significant underestimation. I’ll ask Blackwing.”
Lamp hastens his pace to advance to the front of the convoy. Owl follows along behind him, and they soon draw even with their leader. Lamp conveys the outlander’s question to his employer, and the man provides his answer.
“For the three of us: two and a half days. For them,” he nods toward his porters, “it will be closer to a week. We’ll separate once we reach the base of the slope, and I’ll carry you up the same way we came down.”
Lamp’s eyebrows raise. He’s not sure whether to feel impressed or incredulous.
Having watched Blackwing scale a vertical surface the day before, it’s not surprising to hear the man claim he can float his way up an incline. However, that pre-picnic climb had only been a short jaunt, while this uphill hike will require hours of combined physical exertion and magical expenditure. Lamp finds himself doubting his employer’s capability for the first time since they met. He keeps those thoughts to himself, naturally.
After translating Blackwing’s answer to Owl, Lamp elaborates further on the bounding method the porters had used on the first leg of their previous overland journey. He animatedly describes his backwards facing chair and the lurching feeling of intermittent weightlessness. As he speaks, the girl nods along with an interested expression, seeming neither nervous nor excited. Lamp wouldn’t describe her reaction as bored, precisely, but it does strike him as slightly underwhelmed.
Then again, she may well have experienced true, bird-like flight back in her homeland. Perhaps to her, Blackwing’s method sounds like a downgrade from an established standard, rather than the novel and exhilarating experience it had proven for Lamp. He badly wants to ask the girl whether she’s flown before, but he refrains out of worry that he’ll stumble into the same conversational dead-end he discovered the last time they discussed flying magic. He won’t raise the subject of jinn for the same reason, despite his curiosity.
Lamp also hesitates to ask questions about the royal family, given the encroaching doom of Owl’s favorite scion. However, he recalls that the handmaid had seemed briefly happy to discuss her beloved the day before, at least until she herself ran into a touchy subject, so maybe the topic isn’t completely taboo. Lamp resolves to test that water when a conversational opportunity arises. For the time being, the outlander still has inquiries of her own.
“So, after we reach the next town, how far do we travel from there?” She asks.
“Hmm. I don’t know the physical distance, but it took us most of a night and the following morning to sail from my home city.”
Owl cocks her head slightly. “Sail? I am unfamiliar with that word. Is it a local term? Oh! Is that what you call Lord Blackwing’s jumping technique?”
“No.” Lamp answers with minor amusement. “It’s a proper word from the old language- your language, I mean. It refers to… how to phrase this? Do you know what a boat is?”
“Yes!” She nods enthusiastically. “Boats are those long, wooden tubes that float atop water like rafts, correct? I saw one of them in his majesty’s antiques collection, and they appear on some of Lady Jaleh’s more recent acquisitions. If we understood correctly, then boats are primarily moved by a team of men who push against the water with large paddles. I thought the term for that was ‘rowing.’”
Lamp smiles. “That is what rowing means, but that’s not the only way we traverse the sea these days. Or even before the rupture. I wonder how old your king’s ship is if it doesn’t have a mast. It’s not a dinghy is it?… Anyway, have you ever seen a large piece of cloth blowing in the wind?”
Owl affirms that she has, so he uses that image as a basis to explain the concept of sails, and from there he describes the principle of sailing. His explanations are rooted more in casual observation than nautical scholarship, so he tries not to overstate his knowledge. Despite his brief and shallow explanation, Owl seems enraptured by the subject. She shows far more interest and asks many more questions than she had while Lamp was describing his journey down the mountain.
They spend a good while on the subject of boats before she eventually runs out of questions he feels confident answering. Their conversation lapses then, and Lamp takes advantage of the break to acquire one of the many spare water skins carried by Blackwing’s porters. Owl already possesses one of her own, and the two of them continue walking alongside each other while they rehydrate.
Lamp deliberately gulps down his refreshment at a slightly faster pace so he can ready himself to speak first. Once quenched, he waits for Owl to lower her own waterskin before he prompts her with a delicate question.
“Do you mind me asking about your princess?” He asks gently, his curiosity having won out over caution after a very brief struggle.
“Not at all!” Owl beams. “Her highness is one of my favorite subjects. What do you want to know?”
Lamp relaxes. “To start with, I noticed you haven’t told us her name yet. Is that a matter of protocol?”
Owl nods with a more serious expression. “The personal names of royalty are not to be uttered to or by any person not belonging to their household. That rule is only strictly enforced for the reigning king and the current avatar of Growth, but the restriction loosely applies to all of the king’s immediate relatives.
“As for their surname, the royals belong to House Sacrifice. We are permitted to speak the family name, though it is still considered impolite. One seldom hears it outside of ceremonies and profane invectives.”
“Ah. Curious.”
Lamp has no immediate follow-up, so Owl shrugs off the lightweight pack she had insisted on carrying and returns her waterskin to storage. While the bag’s open, Lamp catches sight of the lacquered box containing her falsemask. He recalls the inscription painted on its forehead.
Sacrificed princess indeed.
Owl closes the pack and slings it back over her shoulders. Once it's settled, she looks over at Lamp curiously.
“Was that your only question about her? I can just tell random stories if you have no specific points of inquiry…” She pauses, and he nods. “Very well then, I do have something I wanted to mention. Have I told you that she is an artist?”
“Not that I recall. And, please, go ahead.”
“Gladly.” Owl nods with a renewed grin. “You cataloged the trinkets we sent to Blackwing, correct? A few of those items were made by the princess’s own hand! I wanted to mention this when you told me about your previous work in our first meeting, but we had other pressing matters at the time. Anyhow-”
The outlander proceeds to describe a decent chunk of her beloved’s life story, detailing the princess’s youthful introduction to the arts, her gradual loss of interest, and the sudden rekindling of her passion following Blackwing’s arrival and the opening of trade.
During the first interstice between portals, the royal daughter had resumed practice purely for her own enjoyment. When Blackwing’s second visit confirmed that the foreign lord wanted to collect her culture’s art, the princess had worked with Lady Jaleh to petition artisans and the owners of antiques to submit items for consideration.
The princess then added her own work to the pool and sent it along with Jaleh’s third trade mission, whereupon Blackwing unknowingly passed over every item she had crafted to catch his eye. That failure spurred a flurry of practice and productivity which persisted over the next three months until the reopening of the gate, when she submitted her work again. She was rejected a second time, but continued practicing in anticipation of the fifth interstice. Then, a year after her efforts began, she finally managed to win the merchant over.
“Her highness continued sending at least two new gifts along with each trade mission, and she has succeeded in snagging his lordship’s attention on each attempt since her first success!” Owl pauses to breathe, then smiles awkwardly. “That was not too much at once, I hope. If you fail to stop me, I will speak until exhaustion.”
“Not at all.” Lamp smoothly lies. “Do you remember which specific pieces she made?”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Owl does, for the most part, and she happily describes the items for him with as much detail as her memory can conjure. Lamp tries to match his recollections against her words, and he’s able to recognize a few of the objects from his sessions with Emerald. Each time he remembers a piece, they spend a few minutes discussing the work and the artistic intentions behind it. Owl doesn’t always know what vision her sweetheart had in mind for any given project, but she’s happy to compare her personal interpretations against Lamp’s.
After a fair bit of time, they manage to run through the list of artworks she remembers. Their conversation ceases while they munch on nutrient dense trail rations provided by Blackwing, and they continue walking in silence after finishing their snacks.
Privately, Lamp muses that the princess’s passion to create and share her art might be driven by an urge to carve a mark of her existence on the world. Seven years from now, when she upholds her duty by giving up her life to feed her kingdom, when her name becomes unspeakable, one of her painted urns may yet rest on Blackwing’s shelf. People she never met will see and know some part of her; through their eyes, she will continue to exist beyond the icon she became.
And maybe it matters to the young woman that her art won’t all remain inside her own world. By offering her work to Blackwing, she ensures that a part of herself escapes the gilded prison. Each time the merchant accepts one of her gifts, another fragment of her soul follows in her aunt’s footsteps, achieving a freedom the princess herself can never pursue.
For the first time since the outworlder explained her quest, Lamp finds himself not only feeling sympathy for the girl, but also grieving the lover she intends to rescue. It is a deep misfortune that the princess’s salvation appears to rest on Clearheart’s shoulders. This journey of theirs will likely accomplish nothing, but at least Owl will know she tried. Lamp hopes that knowledge brings her solace in the years to come.
The scholar resolves not to dwell on his hopelessness, lest his dour mood depresses his companions’ spirits as well. Forcing his mind to focus on a different subject, he glances upwards to examine the canyon’s lofty rim.
The day has progressed far enough by now that sunlight drapes halfway down the western wall. When their group reaches an intersection between three gorges a short time later, the combined width of those passages creates a window through which the late-morning sun finally shines down upon their bodies. The light feels slightly warmer than it had yesterday, bringing a relieved smile to Lamp’s face.
Blackwing leads their group into a spot of daylight then calls for a rest stop. The porters shrug off their heavy packs and either sit down to eat or else wander off out of view to relieve themselves. Lamp has no pressing needs himself, so he settles down against the wall, closes his eyes, and breathes out with a contented sigh.
“Don’t fall asleep again.” Blackwing speaks softly from somewhere nearby. “I won’t carry you until we reach the mountain.”
The man’s tone sounds more joking than serious, so Lamp waves a dismissive hand without opening his eyes.
“No promises.” He mumbles.
“I suppose we’ll just leave you here, then.”
“It’s not a bad spot.”
“No. It really isn’t.” Blackwing’s voice gets a little closer as he sits down beside Lamp. “Thank you for keeping our guest entertained, by the way. Did the two of you discuss anything noteworthy?”
“She didn’t reveal any hidden agendas, if that’s what you’re driving at, but she did tell me something interesting.” Lamp opens his eyes and looks over. “The princess she’s trying to rescue made some of the artwork you obtained from her kingdom. Do you remember that stark painting of a narrow, white mountain overlooking a black plain strewn with jagged, hill-sized stalagmites?”
Blackwing nods in recognition. “I display that piece in my library. Once we’re back inside the caldera, we might spare a little time to tour my collection. I expect you’d both enjoy that.”
“Oh, I’d love to! Grayowl could help us verify or update their descriptions. I’m sure we won’t have time for that on the way out, but maybe some other day…”
Blackwing nods. “If we can.”
Speaking of Owl, Lamp sees the girl stepping out from the canyon’s shadow and walking their way. She seems a little tense as she steps into the sunlight, but she resolutely squares her shoulders and marches across the distance. When she reaches the two of them at the wall, she shades her face as she turns around and sits next to Lamp.
She exchanges interpreted pleasantries with Blackwing while keeping a hand above her eyes to block the sun. While he answers her, the tall man reaches out with his graft arm to collect his bag. After retrieving the pack, he rummages through it and pulls out a petasos sized for a woman’s head. Lamp confirms that he doesn’t need to explain what a hat is before passing the object along.
“Thank you.” She settles the garment on her head and nods appreciatively. “I was wondering how your people handled that problem. It must be tiresome to have an object in the sky that hurts you whenever you look at it, especially since it constantly moves.”
“We get used to it.” Lamp replies after translating. “Actually, since the sun’s finally out, I can show you something neat. Would you like to see my best party trick?”
“This is an application of your personal magic? Yes, please.”
Lamp lifts both of his arms into the air, crosses them at the elbow, and turns his wrists so that his palms face outward and his fingers point to the sides. He moves his right hand between the sun and Owl’s face before positioning his left hand in the same manner for Blackwing. Then, he drains sunlight at the fastest rate of absorption he can achieve.
His glass-clear grafts instantly turn glossy black, and the air around them darkens to form a halo of shade. From Lamp’s perspective in the middle, neither hand admits a single ray of light, but for his audience sitting on either side, one spec of luminance remains. Although Lamp can’t see it from his own angle, he can envision the dull orange dot that now occupies the place of the sun.
Through his transparent grafts, the raging fire in the sky has dimmed enough for human eyes to behold it, which is a rare enough sight that even the Prince of Merchants leans forward in appreciation. Or maybe he just needed to reposition so Lamp’s bones weren’t in the way. In any case, Blackwing and Owl both make impressed noises as they contemplate the sun, and their evident interest gives Lamp considerable joy. Sadly, he can’t maintain this effect for long, so he warns them to avert their eyes before he relaxes his magic and lowers his hands.
They thank him, he tells them they’re welcome, and the trio quietly luxuriates in sunlight for a moment longer before Owl restarts their conversation on hats with a question about alternative styles. Lamp would have little to offer here, but Blackwing turns out to be surprisingly knowledgeable on the topic of women’s fashion. Lamp supposes he would need to be, given that his company sells it.
The scholar translates a short discussion on the subject until the last of Blackwing’s porters returns from his rest break. Once everyone has reassembled, Blackwing calls an end to the reprieve, so they pull on their packs and get walking again.
As they trek through the canyons, Lamp and Owl resume chatting. The outlander leads their conversation again, asking questions about the graft magic and sharing her own observations. She notes that most of Blackwing’s employees seem to manipulate physical energy, while her own magic falls well outside the apparent norm.
“Neither of you seemed shocked when I explained my abilities, however, so I take it that attention-binding is not unheard of?”
Lamp nods. “‘Not unheard of’ is an apt way to describe it. I’ve personally never met anyone with your graft type before. Psychological grafts already represent a minority of manifestations, and some subcategories only appear once per generation. I could only name three wielders of your magic from the last century.
“The most infamous of them was a self-styled phantom thief who haunted private vaults throughout the eastern sea some seventy-odd years ago. His graft was powerful enough to make him imperceptible to all guards arrayed against him, be they humans, hounds, or even birds. In terms of raw magical potency, he stood somewhere close to Blackwing.”
The handmaid nods with an impressed expression. “One of the Select.”
“Truly?” Lamp raises his eyebrows, having recognized her term as a signifier of high nobility. “You would grant that distinction to a thief?”
She nods again. “Whether by soulmask or graft power, some are chosen to stand above others. We may find fault in their actions, but we cannot deny their nature. Now, what became of this phantom thief?”
“Oh, he was eventually caught by an unmanned trap. His magic didn’t work on metal and rope, as it turned out. The lord who caught your graft-brother hung him up publicly in a wooden cage. Rumor has it that everyone in the city thought the trap was empty until its occupant died of thirst three days later and his corpse finally became visible. That must have been quite the shock to the first person who noticed!”
Owl stifles a grimace then answers sanguinely. “A fitting end for one who abused his blessing.”
“Just so.”
Lamp takes her brief show of discomfort as a positive sign. He’d shared that story in the hopes of dissuading reckless actions against Clearheart. He doesn’t want the girl getting herself killed, not least because he might die with her.
With their conversation on grafts concluded, the scholar and outlander bounce between a few additional subjects before the mounting exertion of the hike gradually degrades their interest in speaking. Their exchanges grow increasingly sporadic as the day progresses, and they discuss little of true consequence.
Eventually, their caravan stops for the night and they cook a simple meal. The porters and Blackwing remain in high-enough spirits to banter, but Lamp and Owl feel considerably more worn down. He reminds the girl that they only need to walk for half a day tomorrow, and she makes Lamp promise to drag her along behind him if the hike lasts any longer.
After claiming a spot to sleep, Lamp rolls out a reed mat to separate his body from the stone. Tired as he feels, however, he can’t lay down just yet. Sleep must wait until he honors his promise to the gods. So, standing with his palms raised and eyes closed, Lamp makes his offering.
“Take of my dreams what you wish, Great Ones. On this night, I relinquish everything to you. May the nectar of my soul bring you nourishment and mirth. By your care, your teachings, and your silence.”
Lamp writes a holy symbol in the air then lays down, pulls his blanket over himself, and falls asleep. He dreams of nothing throughout that night, and the morning swiftly arrives as if no time had passed at all. Glancing around, he sees that only half of the porters had risen before him, and none of them seem to be moving with any urgency. It seems Lamp woke early enough that there’s no need to rush through his morning.
The scholar rises and stretches. Then, since he apparently has time to spare, he decides to continue his streak of piety with a longform intonation. After all, there’s no point in praying for protection from Clearheart if he offends the gods by half-assing his efforts.
Lamp shuts his eyes, raises his arms, and begins muttering a lengthy traditional prayer to himself. Almost immediately, soft noise disturbs his concentration. He opens his eyes to find that one of the porters has moved close to him and adopted the same position. Lamp smiles wryly before closing off his sight again and resuming his recitation. He hears a couple more shuffling bodies as some few minutes pass, but he pays them no mind.
When the scholar completes his worship a moderate time later, he looks around to see that Owl and a few more of the laborers have gathered behind him. He notes that Blackwing is awake but not nearby.
Lamp awkwardly thanks those who joined him in prayer for doing so, then they separate to prepare for the day. As he watches his accidental congregation walk off, the former acolyte feels a bittersweet nostalgia. It’s been close to a decade since he last directed communal worship, and he hadn’t even prayed next to another person since well before his partner left. Lamp doesn’t know the right name for the emotion he feels in this moment, but he appreciates it.
His elevated mood takes an immediate downturn, however, when he notices one of the porters who’d abstained from worship tossing a glower in his direction. Suddenly apprehensive, Lamp glances around to gauge the camp’s general sentiment and catches a few wary eyes regarding him in return. The majority of the caravan still seems unconcerned and preoccupied, but as many workers as had joined him in prayer now seem to watch him with suspicion.
Lamp belatedly recalls Blackwing mentioning his town’s troubled history with the Blessed Order, and he wonders if he made a considerable blunder by behaving so precisely like a priest. He supposes there’s nothing to be done about it now, though. At least no one seems outright hostile.
Although fully confident in his safety, Lamp still feels awkward and tense for the next several minutes as their group mobilizes and the hike gets underway. He’s almost relieved when the apparent boldest of the wary porters finally approaches him. The man initiates their conversation with inconsequential smalltalk before casually inquiring after Lamp’s background and education.
The scholar answers with slight reluctance. “My mother gave me to the Blessed Order in the last year before I was too old for full induction. The cult became my guardian from that point onwards, and I spent my adolescence training to become a priest, but it didn’t work out in the end. Wayward got away with me, so to speak.”
The topic drops, and the porter makes his conversational exit shortly thereafter. To Lamp’s surprise, however, several additional exchanges follow with other members of the caravan. Whether they come cautious or curious, most of the laborers show more interest in Lamp now that he’s revealed how close he once was to becoming a man of the cloth. One worker even asks for advice on a personal matter; Lamp does his best to couch his answer within scripture, since that seems to be the concern.
After Lamp completes his rounds, the rest of the morning thankfully passes without incident. Around noon, the ground begins to slope upwards beneath their feet. Although the canyons still tower overhead and march much farther forward, their caravan has reached the foot of the great mountain.
They can only see a sliver of its ponderous mass between the walls of the ravine, but that small glimpse of its massive scale takes Owl aback and sparks multiple impressed comments on its scale. Lamp looks forward to seeing her reaction once they escape the labyrinth and she can absorb the full scale of it.
For now, Blackwing leads them to the empty fortification where they’d slept on the first night of their overland journey to Wall Town. The porters file inside to rest and eat, but Blackwing still has energy to spare, so Lamp and Owl can’t dawdle with them.
The scholar bids farewell to his new acquaintances among the workers then waits near the entrance while his employer and a deputized assistant assemble a pair of chair-harnesses. Once the conjoined seats are ready, Blackwing addresses his employees en masse to deliver a brief set of instructions and some minor praise. When his speech concludes, he grabs his seating contraption and carries it outside.
Lamp and Owl follow behind him and stand nearby while he fits his arms through the straps and secures the strange assemblage onto his back. Then, the tall man kneels and instructs them to board. Lamp goes first and demonstrates the fastening process to Owl. She watches attentively before climbing in herself and smoothly repeating the procedure.
Both of them tug on their straps to ensure an adequately tight fit, and Lamp delivers the go-ahead to Blackwing. The tall man stands, warns them of impending motion, then leaps forward.
Lamp had braced himself to be rattled, but the motion feels surprisingly graceful. Even when they land, Blackwing skillfully preserves their momentum and softly launches forward again. Gone is the jarring jostle Lamp had endured on his journey down; even the subtle shifts in weight feel gentle compared to his prior, lurching experience. Clearly, Blackwing differentiates himself with technique as well as power.
But not even Blackwing can jump uphill as quickly as lesser weight-binders jump down. The man’s loping stride seems to have reached its top speed already, and it’s a significantly slower pace than the down trip. Progress will be slow, meaning Lamp will spend many hours in this chair. He reflects that it could really use more padding; he’ll give that feedback once the journey’s over.
Setting those thoughts aside for now, Lamp looks aside to assess his fellow passenger. For her part, Owl seems relaxed, and she returns his inquisitive glance with a convincing expression of aplomb. However, he does notice the tight grip she’s keeping on her harness, so he formulates a question to distract her.
“Do you have any landscapes like this back home?” He raises his voice slightly to counter the soft rush of air. “I mean, in terms of pure scale.”
“No.” She answers before reconsidering. “Well, we have neither your impenetrable maze of gargantuan canyons nor a mountain so massive that one might conclude the earth turned sideways, but we do have our own features of interest. Tell me, do you have sand dunes in this world? Yes? What about dune seas? Good. For some reason, I was hoping they were unique.
“Alright, Lamphand, it is my turn to explain. Imagine a hill made of black sand; this is not a simple mound but a true hill, rising about as tall above you as that alcove in which we ate lunch the day before yesterday. Now imagine thousands of other hills just like it, all bunched together with ridges linking some of them together like causeways. Do you have anything like that?”
“No. It sounds like an incredible sight. I’m not sure we have a word for it in my own language.”
“My words hardly do the subject justice; it is quite stunning. You may be able to see it from your side of the gate as well. It almost comes up to the wall before petering out into sand flats. Perhaps, having seen the feature, Lord Blackwing might know the term for it in your local tongue.”
Lamp promises to ask at a later time, and their geographical discussion carries on. Owl needs little prompting as she guides Lamp through a verbal tour of her homeland. She describes plateaus of onyx, spires of chalk, deep valleys of black granite, and a ‘near-bottomless’ pit adorned with gemstone pillars. Above it all hangs a cold metal ceiling; distant red lights dotting its surface flash on and off in imitation of twinkling stars.
When Owl’s verbal tour winds down, Lamp offers her one of his own. He describes the caldera and its sea. He speaks of the uncountable islands strewn through shallow waters near the ring, and he tells her about the lonely, fathomless depths of the middle region. Then he explains the concept of a storm and shares rumors of the undying hurricane that rages at the center of his world.
Throughout his tales, Owl listens with great interest and asks insightful questions. As a former tutor, Lamp finds her attentiveness quite gratifying, but he eventually begins to worry that her keen interest comes from a deliberate effort to remain distracted from her environment.
While Owl seems to have fully acclimated to Blackwing’s stride, every passing minute brings a second source of anxiety closer into view. The farther uphill they travel, the more the canyon’s level walls appear to sink into the mountainside. Consequently, every bounding step opens a slightly larger window to the sky. Owl clearly doesn’t want to look through that aperture, but she won’t be able to avert her eyes much longer.
When the walls eventually drop to the height of a three-story building, the outlander’s hands clench around her harness again; she knows it won’t be long before they fully emerge. Her silver-patterned face remains perfectly calm, however, and Lamp realizes that she intends to say nothing. She will not plead for consideration. She will not ask for more time.
Lamp understands her state of mind. Just a few days ago, he had found himself in a similar position multiple times. Like her, he had also bottled up his fear. He was an adult with a contract to fulfil and a schedule to keep, however. It shouldn’t be necessary for their young guest to suffer silently like he did.
“Blackwing!” Lamp calls over his shoulder. “Could we cross the threshold on foot? By ourselves, I mean. Owl seems a little nervous.”
The man doesn’t answer verbally, but he does reduce his speed. After a few more steps, he drifts to a halt and settles softly. As soon as he lands, he kneels. Lamp wastes no time in freeing himself from his chair, and Owl follows suit a moment later. She wears a curious expression as she glances between the two men, waiting for an explanation.
“We’ll walk from here to the edge.” Lamp tells her. “I thought you might appreciate having a bit more time to acclimate.”
“Oh. Yes, I would. Thank you.”
Owl turns to face the incline, but she doesn’t advance right away. Instead, she breathes in deep and looks up slowly. Then, in a smaller voice than he’s heard from her before, she asks a question.
“Is it really infinite?”
Lamp translates for Blackwing’s sake, since the man had turned around to watch their conversation. His employer answers the outlander’s question simply.
“We don’t know.”
She nods, then speaks with a tone of morbid curiosity. “Has anyone tried to check?”
“Yes.” Blackwing answers again. “Though our methods are limited. We know only that it extends far above the caldera’s rim.”
“Meaning it goes deeper than anyone in your world could fly.”
The tall man nods, and the girl fidgets, tugging at her cloak. The outworlder’s head tilts down again as she turns to face her host, but then she glances aside at Lamp with an awkward smile. Her next words might be directed specifically to him, but he repeats them anyway.
“It feels strange, having all that sky hanging above us with nothing to hold it in place. Do you ever worry about it crumpling down on your head or just blowing away and leaving you breathless?”
“No. I don’t.” Lamp answers with sympathy. “It’s already in contact with the earth, and the earth holds it down. The air has nowhere left to fall and no ability to leave. If our winds were strong enough to free themselves, they would have left us centuries ago.”
“Hmm.”
The handmaid doesn’t sound or look convinced, but she straightens her back and strides forward all the same. The men follow her lead as she hikes out toward the mountain proper. As they advance, the great walls slowly fall aside, and the cloudless sky blooms like a flower above their heads.
