Light rain still falls the following morning, but the previous night’s violent winds have dwindled to a gentle breeze. Lamp, freshly woken and washed, observes the placid remnants of an exhausted storm from the partial shelter of Blackwing’s wraparound porch. Two plates of warm food sit untouched at his side as he waits for his host to join him at the small table.

  In the courtyard garden, Blackwing assists his groundskeeper by lifting an uprooted tree back into its plot. He holds the young plant steady with his graft arm while the other man shovels muddied soil back into place. The work completes swiftly, and Blackwing soon separates from the busy gardener to join his other employee on the veranda for breakfast.

  The two of them exchange brief pleasantries between their first few bites and confirm that neither has yet encountered Owl this morning. Blackwing states a time at which he intends to rouse her if she hasn’t already joined them. Lamp nods along, and the two men lapse into a silence that almost feels companionable.

  Nursing their tea and looking out over the lush splendor of Blackwing’s verdant garden, they enjoy a minute of quiet calm. Eventually, Lamp breaks the spell with a hushed comment.

  “I noticed yesterday that one of your neighbors has a sound graft. Should we be concerned about eavesdropping?”

  “No. The walls and rain will shield us.” Blackwing answers with calm assurance. “Besides, the head of that household oversees my stake in the mine. I can trust her with most secrets.”

  “Ah. Very well, then.” Lamp replies at conversational volume. “I just wanted to say again that Grayowl and I enjoyed perusing your collection last night.”

  “Good. I’m sorry I couldn’t spare time to join you.”

  “No need for apologies. I understand how busy you are.” Lamp demurs. “It is a shame that you missed our conversation, though. Grayowl had some interesting observations that I’ll need to record at some point. Speaking of, do you store Emerald’s notes at this estate? I’d like to make a few annotations before we leave. Time permitting.”

  Blackwing shakes his head. “I keep those records inside a vault in Wall Town, along with the bulk of the objects you reviewed.”

  “Pity. I’ll get ‘round to it at some point, I suppose.”

  Blackwing nods but doesn’t answer. Lamp, sensing a conversational avenue towards a topic he had previously avoided, musters his resolve and asks an embarrassing question with an oblique turn of phrase.

  “I’m curious, given your tight schedule, how much of our notes do you typically read?”

  “Not enough, in retrospect.” Blackwing quips with a rueful tone. “Understand- by the time we recruited you, I already believed that human transit was impossible. We determined early on that beasts died instantly on contact with the gate, and our trading partners found the same result after sending through a condemned criminal.”

  The merchant leans back in his chair then continues. “Working under that false assumption, I directed Emerald to emphasize details that might pertain to trade or diplomacy. She was kind enough to also point out any of your interpretations which she thought I’d like or find enlightening. I read most of those excerpts, and I do have a few favorites.”

  “Oh?” Lamp barely suppresses his excitement. “Which ones?”

  Blackwing gives a small, knowing smile in response to Lamp’s fishing, then stills his face to intone a familiar poem.

  “Oh mighty king, he who sundered walls and conquered lands,

  He who scaled mountains and with his axe smote heaven’s bull,

  He who sought an end to death but found anguish alone,

  What becomes of those your name protects,

  Whose frail arms your strength excused and whose wrath your booming voice proclaimed,

  Whose place your courage held,

  When you are gone?”

  Blackwing pauses for a moment after speaking the final line. His somber face betrays unspoken ruminations, but a deep inhale seems to ease his tensions, and he turns back towards Lamp to resume their conversation.

  “Emerald’s notes said you had speculated on that stanza belonging to a larger epic. Did you ever find another fragment?”

  Lamp shakes his head. “Not that I recognized. The implied narrative captured my imagination as well, so I dug through some of my clients’ libraries to see if I could locate the full story, but I never uncovered any references. I don’t think it relates to any post-rupture events in Grayowl’s world-tile, either. Their dynastic structure hasn’t suffered any major upsets since its founding, so there’s no recent historical period into which this poem fits. It appears to be a lost myth from the old world. Or at least, it’s lost on our side of the gate.”

  Blackwing nods but doesn’t answer otherwise. Lamp, now feeling satisfied with the knowledge that his work wasn’t just gathering dust these past two years, allows their conversation to fizzle out while he focuses on eating. A small number of minutes pass without meaningful discussion before a door across the courtyard swings open and the third member of their party interrupts the morning’s silence with a call of greeting.

  Disdaining to cross Blackwing’s garden under the lingering rain, Owl briskly walks around the veranda to reach their section. Arriving shortly thereafter, with freshly washed hair and bright eyes, she greets both of the seated men with a repeated salutation. The girl seems excited about the day ahead, and perhaps a touch nervous, but she doesn’t mention their impending journey as she drags a chair across the porch and joins her elders at their table.

  The trio exchanges companionable prattle for a short while until a servant emerges from the manor and sets a plate of food before the outlander. She examines her options with evident delight, going so far as to enjoy the scent of each item before tasting it, as one might appreciate fine wine.

  She stops short upon sniffing the light red paste smeared across her bread, then hesitantly comments that it smells akin to fish. Blackwing, speaking through Lamp, identifies the spread’s main ingredient as pickled roe. He briefly explains the harvesting and curing process and encourages his guest to try it.

  Daunted but not unwilling, Owl bites into the meal. After swallowing her first mouthful, she states an evidently-surprised approval for its flavor and texture.

  She concludes by saying. “I much prefer it to the fish we had yesterday.”

  “Good.” Blackwing smiles slightly. “I was planning to test seafood recipes on you until we found one you liked. Do you think your princess would enjoy this?”

  Owl laughs at her host’s bold admission before answering his question with a shrug. “She would likely agree to sample it. I offer no promises beyond that.”

  “I could ask nothing further.” The merchant responds before explaining. “I’ve presented a myriad of fish products to Lady Jaleh, but she refuses nearly everything on sight. I’m hoping to circumvent her by creating demand via royal endorsement. If you don’t mind, I’ll send some of this back with you on your return journey.”

  “Sure.” Owl accepts with a grin, then looks askance at Blackwing with deliberately overplayed suspicion. “Is this the true reason you agreed to help me? So that I would consent to hawk your wares to my kingdom’s elite customers?”

  He places a hand over his heart and nods solemnly. “I’m afraid you’ve seen straight through me.”

  She laughs again before returning to her meal. While the outlander’s busy chewing, her interpreter spares a moment to appraise the rain. The sky seems a lighter shade of gray than it had when he first emerged, but he can’t tell whether the change resulted from thinning cloud cover, or if it’s merely an effect of the sun climbing higher. Even if the storm is nearly spent, it won’t fully abate before Owl’s finished her breakfast.

  Lamp turns toward his employer and asks. “Are we sailing through this?”

  “Yes. We leave once she’s done eating. The crew is ready.”

  “I see. Are we making the full journey in one day?” Lamp tries to estimate their time of arrival and puts it well past sundown.

  Unsurprisingly, Blackwing shakes his head. “No. The ship I commandeered needs to offload cargo at a town a few hours shy of our destination. We’ll overnight there. Also, I have a pair of himatia waiting for the two of you in our hold. We’ll dig those out after we arrive.”

  “Oh! You took care of that last night, I presume? Thank you.”

  “No need. I owed you a replacement.”

  “Still, thank you.”

  Lamp conveys their itinerary to Owl, followed by an addendum from Blackwing that she doesn’t need to rush her breakfast. The girl hurries herself in spite of his assured patience, and soon enough a servant comes along to retrieve her empty plate. With that, Blackwing rises from his seat, and his guests follow up from theirs.

  In the next instant, another servant steps out from the house carrying a stack of three petasoi balanced atop a trio of folded chlamyses. Lamp accepts both objects when offered, then briefly sets the hat aside to unfurl and don his new cloak before settling the brimmed cap atop his curls.

  He turns towards Owl to check if she needs guidance, only to find the girl already clad. She tugs the overgarment into a more comfortable alignment over her shoulders, then looks up at him and nods.

  Thus prepared for the rain, the trio departs from Blackwing’s veranda. A purposeful stride across the garden quickly brings them to his gate; once through, they turn down a stately lane towards the city’s docks. Blackwing retraces their steps from the day prior for the first minute or so before deviating onto a presumably more direct path.

  It’s a lovely day, in spite of the persistent cloud cover. The freshly rinsed homes of Blackwing’s sedate neighborhood look dull yet charming beneath the lingering drizzle, and the morning air feels pleasantly cool, if marginally overdamp. Contemplating the accumulated wetness, Lamp spares a moment to give silent thanks for the paving stones beneath their feet; he hates to imagine the morass of mud they’d have to wade through otherwise.

  Aside from their own group, Lamp sees very few people out and about. What little traffic there is hurries busily on its way, and Blackwing matches that prevailing trend by maintaining a brisk pace. Their speed allows little time for sightseeing, but Owl luckily no longer seems inclined to it. Although few passing fancies briefly catch her eye, she doesn’t gawk or linger like she had before. Perhaps yesterday’s parade of novelty fully exhausted Trembleheel’s stock of curiosities, or, more likely, she’s now focused on the days to come.

  Lamp mulls distracting the girl from her apprehensions before deciding against it on the grounds that fear of Clearheart is actually a healthy frame of mind, and he ought to let her dwell in it. With that choice made, and with neither of his partners inclined towards conversation, they cross the city in silence.

  Their march lasts just long enough to warm Lamp’s body before they reach and traverse the double-gated courtyard that lets out onto the docks. After stepping through, Blackwing immediately leads their group aside, having sagely anticipated that this unprecedented view would at last capture the outlander’s full attention. Indeed, she spends a fair minute staring wordlessly at the harbor, its ships, and the sea beyond them.

  Eventually, she asks which vessel they’ll depart in, and Blackwing points his graft arm towards the boat in question. Owl nods in response, which Blackwing takes as his queue to resume walking. The three of them rejoin the flow of traffic toward the docks, and the road beneath their feet soon hits the waterline and turns to follow.

  A minute later, they find themselves before their ship. Its crew stands ready aboard the deck; whatever cargo the vessel carries must already be stowed away. Blackwing strides up the gangway without pause, with Lamp following closely behind.

  Halfway across, the scholar stops and glances over his shoulder. He finds Owl still standing at the bottom, staring down through the narrow gaps between the gangway’s planks at the cold waves lapping below. He gives the girl a moment to find her courage, and she glances up at him appreciatively before taking her first step onto the wood and gingerly climbing forward. He offers the poor thing his arm when she reaches him, and she clings to it for support on the second half of their shared assent.

  “I admit,” she mutters upon reaching the top, stepping onto the boat, and releasing him, “I feel slightly leery at the prospect of traveling across such a vast body of water in a floating wooden bowl.”

  Lamp grins at her description, then assures her. “We’re in good hands. I didn’t drown once on my way in.”

  “I know.” She sighs with a hint of a smile. “This is a normal thing that people in your world do all the time. I just… Regent. How deep does it get?”

  “Um…” He hesitates to share the answer.

  “Very?” She guesses anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “Wayward keep me. Us. Everyone here.”

  Lamp gives her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “We’ll be fine.”

  He maneuvers himself and the outlander out of the crew’s way as the sailors draw up their gangplank and make the ship ready for departure. Owl watches with fascination as the rowers assume their positions along the ship’s flanks and take up their oars. Mere seconds later, a sharp command issues from the helm, and they begin to move. The handmaid nearly stumbles from the unexpected rocking motion of their launch and grabs the nearby railing for support. She continues holding onto it thereafter.

  Owl’s anxiety shows plainly on her face as they push away from the dock and begin drifting into the harbor, but her curiosity soon proves stronger than her fear. She stays rooted at the side of the boat, almost-but-not-quite leaning over its side to catch a better view of the waves ahead. Periodically, she glances towards the other unmoored ships coasting through the bay, seemingly calculating their trajectories to assuage concerns that something might be on course to collide with them.

  Lamp waits until she shows signs of settling down before attempting small talk.

  “Sorry about the weather.” He offers. “Bad luck that it didn’t clear overnight.”

  Owl shakes her head in response. “You should not be. I prefer having all these clouds to act as a lid.”

  “I see. Does that resemblance remind you of home?”

  “A little.”

  Lamp asks her a few questions about the sky in her home world, which she answers distractedly while keeping her eyes on the water. The scholar abandons their conversation after the outlander trails off mid-sentence over the sight of a drifting strand of kelp. Resigning himself to silence, he resolves to wait by Owl’s side in case Blackwing needs to speak with her. Otherwise, the two of them ignore each other for the next few minutes as they watch their ship glide towards the mouth of Trembleheel’s sheltered inlet.

  Owl shows great excitement when they finally cross into open waters but rapidly succumbs to boat sickness following contact with the larger waves. Lamp, having a basic awareness of this condition but no knowledge of its treatment, seeks out Blackwing for advice. His employer prescribes rest belowdecks, so Lamp dutifully guides the queasy youth down the steps into the hold.

  He activates his graft as they descend, lighting their way with a gentle and efficient glow. The outlander nods in thanks, then asks whether the two of them are progressing beneath the level of the water’s surface. Lamp answers, “Not completely,” which does not appear to set the girl at ease.

  As he seeks out a quiet place for Owl to lie down, Lamp tries not to let on that he’s only been aboard a ship once before. Luckily, they blunder into a suitable cavity fast enough to make it look like he knew where he was going, and he soon gets the woozy handmaid settled onto an available mat.

  Once his ward appears comfortably reclined, Lamp further dims his light to save a little on power. Then, after a few wordless moments of listless waiting, he asks the girl if she’d prefer quiet or conversation. Without opening her eyes, Owl opts for the latter, so Lamp inquires whether she’d care to explore any particular subject. She remains silent for roughly half a minute before answering.

  “I would like to know how Lady-” She stops herself, then resumes after a pause. “I would like to know how the woman you call Clearheart spent the last two decades. Please tell me how she became a ‘basileus’ and what she has done with her position. Does she rule her people justly? And is she… living well?”

  Lamp rubs the back of his neck and holds in a sigh. While Clearheart’s not his favorite subject, he did imply that any topic was on the table, and it’s useful information for the girl to have, so he’s stuck with this.

  He clears his throat. “I don’t know much at all about that last point, but I can answer your other questions. Parts of them, anyway. I’ll start with her ascension. The princess disappeared from your world around twenty-three years ago, right? I have no idea how she found her way inside the caldera, but at some point in her first year after arriving, Clearheart enlisted with a large and esteemed mercenary group called the Greenbloods. By the time she first set foot in my home city about twenty-one years ago, she was their newly promoted captain.

  “Her former boss had just died in a disastrous mission that got a lot of their senior officers killed or wounded. When Clearheart met with the Greenblood’s client to receive their payment, the lord gave her an insulting fraction of what he’d promised. She and her new army took considerable exception to that breach of contract. A month after the old man bilked them, they launched a surprise assault against his district in the dead of night; Clearheart had his head on a pike a week later. His surviving supporters either fled to other islands or pledged loyalty to the new basileus. She’s been in charge of that territory ever since.”

  Lamp pauses there and glances towards Owl to gauge her reaction. He finds her propped up on one arm, looking at him with an expression of disbelieving disgust.

  “She staged a coup?” The girl asks in an incredulous tone. “And waged war in the middle of a city?”

  “Yeah.” Lamp shrugs. “It went fairly smooth, as such things go. The Glassbloods know their business, whatever else one might say about them.”

  “I- ugh.” Owl turns away, flopping onto her back to stare up at the wooden ceiling. Her voice carries a clear frustration when she resumes. “I know such violence is common here, but I had thought she… that a princess would never… take things that far.”

  “Oh?” Lamp asks softly and with a subtle edge. “You imagined she’d be better than us?”

  “No, I-” She sighs and falls silent for a moment before admitting in a murmur. “Only better than the worst of you.”

  “In that case,” he smiles without humor, “you’ve accurately appraised her character. The woman’s no paragon, and I can’t stand being near her, but trust me: we do- by far- have worse.”

  They fall into an uncomfortable silence after that morbid comment. In the lengthening quiet, Lamp ponders whether his last question to Owl was out of line. Setting the messy issue of propriety aside, he knows damn well it wasn’t part of his job. He holds back a sigh and resolves not to dig at the outlander like that again.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Getting chummy with Owl is one thing, but he needs to remember that she’s not principally his friend. She’s a business contact first and foremost, one whom his employer considers highly valuable. While Lamp could reasonably criticize a friend, Owl exists beyond that station.

  Also, regardless of how he feels about the prospect of an outsider looking down on his people, he can’t deny that her prejudice has fair basis in reality. His world is objectively more violent than her own. The scholar can accept that truth. What he won’t abide, at least not in his own thoughts, is the implication that her kin are better by nature than his own. The only differentiator he sees is in their environment, in their magic and its distribution.

  For both good and ill, the five gods sowed seeds of freedom across Lamp’s homeland, bearing ample fruits of chaos. It’s only by dint of heaven’s slapdash distribution of power that warlords continue to rise and conquer in every generation. Without grafts, they would lose the driving force behind their disorganized system of pocket tyrannies, and new pressures would emerge to shape society.

  As it stands, Lamp’s world offered the younger Clearheart few options to establish herself after she arrived. Their prevailing norms, combined with her lack of contacts and the adversarial character of her magic, made a path of violence the easiest road to follow. So it’s hardly surprising that she would acclimate under the prevailing conditions and learn to behave like a local. She practically had no other-

  No.

  No. No. She had choices. Lamp shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between two cold fingers. He can’t believe he’s defending the conqueror now. Gods. Mirror! Look what that meddlesome girl has done to him!

  Restraining another sigh, he reopens his eyes and checks the light level in the room. Then, deciding that his vision has sufficiently adapted to the dark and trusting Owl’s has done likewise, he dims his graft to the lowest output he can maintain without full concentration. As his luminance fades, the colors in the room darken and dull.

  Owl stirs in her mat, taking in the change.

  “You know…” She murmurs softly. “In this dim lighting, your world looks a little like mine.”

  “How so? Do you mean the muted colors?” He asks with soft spoken curiosity.

  “Yes. This reminds me of the desert. You have not yet seen it, true?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I should join Blackwing’s next excursion.”

  “I hope you do. My world is beautiful also, in its own way.”

  “I know.” He placates gently. “I’ve seen the paintings, and I look forward to the real sight.”

  They fall quiet for a long moment before Owl speaks again in a subdued tone.

  “I have thought more on our discussion from last night.” She tells him. “Regarding the differences between our homelands. In truth, that topic has weighed upon my mind since before I crossed the barrier, but my doubts have grown heavy since I entered this interior section.”

  She takes a deep breath in, then sighs. “I should not think along these lines, I should not seek to measure the gods’ gifts, but I cannot help but wonder which of our realms is better made. For all of your world’s dangers and flaws, it is at least alive. Things grow and thrive here without humans needing to tend them, and everything appears so vibrant. Compared to yours, the surface of my homeland is a desiccated corpse.”

  “But your cities are peaceful.” He reminds her in a comforting tone. “And your people are healthy. On balance, your world-tile might be a better place for an ordinary person like me to live.”

  The admission pains him to speak, but he at least half-believes it. Unfortunately, Lamp’s attempted consolation fails to convince its target. The handmaid simply frowns and shakes her head in response.

  “On the night I traveled here…” Her voice drops close to a whisper. ”A worker from my side tried to cross through the barrier before I did. She should have been warned that it would kill her, and the fear I saw written on her face told me she understood the risk, but she jumped through anyway.”

  Owl’s expression stiffens into a slight glare, and her voice firms. “Someone from my world-tile was willing to risk death just to reach yours, but nobody from your side has ever tried to cross back into mine. What does that say?”

  “Less than you think.” Lamp softly rebuffs. “The only people in my world who know about the portal are in Blackwing’s employ. Working for him, they’re better paid and more secure than most. We have plenty of desperate souls out here who would welcome the chance to jump into any world but this one. I’ve had a few moments throughout my life where I might have done the same.”

  “Oh.” Owl sends Lamp a sympathetic glance, then takes a moment to digest what he said before asking. “Is the gate a secret on your side, then? We were never certain, but it seems logical given the enemies and rivals with which Lord Blackwing must contend.”

  Lamp nods. “Yes. I only received direct confirmation of your world-tile’s existence a few days ago, and most people on my side don’t know enough to even guess at it. I gather that on your end, the gate is common knowledge?”

  “It is. The Merchant Prince and his sacred golden spear have been a favorite topic of speculation since he first made contact. Court intrigue and high-society gossip still have not returned to what they used to be. I expect they never will.”

  “Oh? What was it like before?” Lamp asks, his curiosity piqued.

  The question shifts their conversation in a lighter direction. Owl answers at length with an obvious glee, recounting scandals of varied importance and repeating unsubstantiated rumors of improper dalliances or broken promises. To Lamp, most of her accounts sound like conventional neighborhood gossip with a heightened melodramatic flare. When he shares that observation, the girl laughs and asks him to share his own stories.

  Lamp obliges her to their mutual amusement, and the two of them while away a few more minutes discussing trivialities and laughing at the foolishness of strangers. When they eventually reach another lull in their exchange, Lamp asks his temporary ward if she’s feeling well enough yet to return upstairs. She answers that she feels well enough to try, so Lamp rises to his feet while Owl shuffles off her mat.

  A minute later, the two of them climb back onto the main deck, stepping out into the diffuse sunlight of an overcast late morning sky. Lamp half-consciously refills his graft while simultaneously guiding an almost-steady Owl over to the ship’s railing. When they reach the side, she braces herself against the wood, gazes out across the watery expanse, and begins asking questions about various things she sees. Lamp gladly answers each of her queries at length and points out any additional features in the sea or on the horizon that he believes might interest her. Although the handmaid hasn’t fully recovered from her earlier nausea, she listens attentively and poses insightful questions.

  They avoid any discussion or acknowledgement of the sky, pretending not to notice the widening blue gaps that wind between the slowly dissipating clouds. Lamp expects clear skies by evening, and at some point Owl will have to contend with that, but for now there’s plenty to occupy her focus at their own elevation.

  Despite their extended stay below decks, too little time has passed since departing from Trembleheel to carry their ship far from the caldera’s rim. Small islands still dot the sea around them, and they soon pass close enough to one of those to see its features. It’s a diminutive patch of land like most of its fellows and seems to host only a single grove of trees clustered at the widest point of a long and narrow beach.

  Once Blackwing’s ship has sailed past that dollop of sand, they see another shoreline shortly afterwards, followed by a third. Only at the fourth island do they finally encounter a settlement. Squinting forward to resolve what details he can, Lamp picks out a handful of buildings and a short, solitary dock. Based on that infrastructure, he predicts the steading to be a humble fishing hamlet. He and Owl both straighten up in anticipation of a novel sight, readying themselves for a fresh round of observations and discussion.

  That conversation never materializes.

  As their ship draws closer to the tiny village, they slowly realize that it stands abandoned and derelict. No boats rest against its shore or bob atop its waves. No hands tend the small, overgrown farms behind each home. No children play in the alleyways.

  Instead, they see broken doors and laundry rotting on the line. The furthest house has only two walls left standing, its other half consumed by fire. A deep gouge across the exposed dirt floor of that building gives silent testimony to a violent confrontation.

  It isn’t difficult to speculate what happened here, but neither of them speak of it, and Lamp refrains from asking Blackwing or the sailors. He simply mutters a prayer for the souls who once lived here. Soon after, Owl declares that she’s feeling unwell again. She turns to make her way back below deck but stops to tell Lamp that he doesn’t need to join her. Claiming that she hadn’t slept well the night before, she declares her intention to rest for the remainder of the voyage.

  They part from each other with a subdued farewell, and Owl descends below deck while Lamp lingers alone at the side of the ship. For a time, he casts an unfocused gaze across the waves as his mind dwells in grim spaces. Almost unwillingly, he thinks back to the night on which he met his new employer, when he was perhaps a minute removed from making the gods’ acquaintance instead of Blackwing’s. The grim fate he avoided that evening likely befell that abandoned village, and no hero arrived in the nick of time to save those people. Blackwing’s transit was weeks too late.

  Looking down at his crystalline hands upon the railing, Lamp wonders if those fragments of divine flesh are worth the price his people pay for them. Does the ability to conjure light truly merit the risk of being murdered and mutilated? Is any gift of magic worth the cruel incentives it creates?

  If Lamp could trade away his graft for the safety of Owl’s homeland, if he could cast off heaven’s gift and subordinate himself to the noble houses to receive their protection, would he make that exchange? If he could be reborn, would he do it there instead of here?

  No, he decides as his grip tightens and then relaxes on the rail. He would not.

  Straightening his back and lifting his chin, Lamp steps away from the ship’s edge with decisive poise, only to remember immediately that he has nowhere else to go. Still, feeling the need to occupy himself somehow, he invents a purpose.

  Lamp visits Blackwing’s appropriated captain’s quarters and knocks on the closed door. After receiving permission to enter, he steps inside and offers to deliver an updated report on his conversations with the outlander. His employer accepts with a neutral affect, so the scholar commences.

  Blackwing shows little interest in their debate over the relative merits of life in either world-tile but asks a surprising number of questions regarding the stories of court intrigue. He seems especially keen to learn the names of those involved.

  Eventually, Lamp’s well of information runs dry, and the two of them fall silent. The scholar lingers awkwardly after completing his debrief despite knowing that he’s no longer needed. Thankfully, his employer seems to realize that Lamp’s hoping for another task to perform and obligingly invites him to help draft a formal greeting to Owl’s king. The exercise is purely verbal, however, as Blackwing insists that nothing should be written down until they exit the caldera again.

  When that secondary work completes, the merchant politely shoos Lamp from his office, leaving the scholar to his own devices for the remainder of the day. With little else to do, he resorts to making small talk with any sailor who seems willing to humor him. He learns a few details about their lives and shares some from his own, but none of them seem interested in engaging for very long, so he quickly runs out of interlocutors.

  At that point, boredom truly sets in. Lamp doesn’t even have any physical exertion to distract him like he did on previous legs of the journey. After a few minutes of aimless milling about the ship, he eventually claims a station at the prow, staring resolutely ahead like some proud adventurer and letting the sea spray repeatedly splash him in the face.

  Lamp remains there as the last wispy clouds evaporate above him and the sun finally emerges over the sea. The air slowly grows hot, but cool mist churned up by their ship’s passage through the waves keeps him comfortable. If not for the threat of sunburn, he could wait here without complaint for a long while. Eventually, though, he retreats below deck.

  Lamp spends some time wandering through the ship’s cargo hold, trying to guess what goods their vessel carries in its numerous pots and amphorae without disturbing any of them. When he tires of that final game, he finds a tiny gap, sits down, and shuts his eyes. He isn’t sure how much he manages to sleep, but time passes, and he eventually notices that the boat has stopped moving.

  Rising stiffly from his resting place, Lamp blearily shuffles into the makeshift footpath that runs between the rows of goods. There he joins a flow of traffic towards the stairwell, falling in line behind a group of sailors carrying boxes up from the hold. When they eventually emerge onto the deck, he ducks around another group of workers heading down and navigates across the suddenly busy ship to claim a quiet spot by the railing.

  There, he finds Owl waiting. She nods when he steps next to her but doesn’t turn to face him. Her eyes seem glued to the city before them. Seeing no reason to interrupt her focus, Lamp turns to assess the urban vista himself.

  It’s a quaint little thing, by his admittedly inflated standards, but still more than twice the size of Trembleheel’s Landing. After a further moment of consideration, he adjusts his estimate upwards by a half.

  In addition to its greater scale, or more likely as a product of it, the city before him appears far more relaxed than Blackwing’s hometown, sprawling freely along its island’s southern coast rather than tucking itself away behind a wall. This place, at last, is a settlement with enough heft, with a high enough population, that no pirate fleet would risk an assault. When Lamp had told Owl that most inhabited locations in his world are safe, he had meant cities like this: the civilized areas where most people actually live.

  Indeed, Lamp does feel safe here. He finds himself relaxing at the familiar sight of tall, clustered buildings, of long dockyards swarming with commerce, and of winding streets that sprawl for a mile. This moment isn’t quite a homecoming, he won’t get there until tomorrow, but it’s at least a return to his native environment. It feels quite good to be back.

  And, small in stature though it may be, the city does look lovely beneath a late afternoon sun. Lamp remarks as such to Owl, finally breaking the silence between them, and she nods in agreement.

  “It is larger than I expected.” The outlander comments.

  “Truly? Are your kingdom’s settlements much smaller than this?” He asks with scholarly interest.

  “Most are, but not all of them.” She shakes her head. “What shocks me most is its lack of relevance. In my world, a city of this size would be a site of major significance, but here it is merely a waystation on our way to somewhere more important. Your people are prodigious builders, Lamphand.”

  “A product of our abundant resources.” He comments academically.

  Lamp elects not to voice a further observation that his world-tile’s numerous cities serve as incontrovertible proof of his people’s ability to collaborate and coexist despite their supposedly violent nature. Beyond that, he feels a swell of pride at the implicit confirmation that the metropolis of his birth eclipses any settlement in Owl’s world.

  While it would be both callous and unfair to gloat about that difference, Lamp still can’t help a grin as he informs his companion that she’s in for a treat tomorrow. She raises an eyebrow in response, but he declines to elaborate. He finds himself relishing the opportunity to present his home before a person who can’t anticipate its grandeur.

  For now, he helps the girl examine and understand the features of the city before them. She recognizes markets, dormitories, and most varieties of workshop without assistance but relies on Lamp to explain the shipyard, crab hatchery, and garum factories. Her first true mistake comes when she confidently misidentifies the city’s main temple as a mayoral palace.

  Shaking his head, Lamp points to a less grandiose but better fortified structure further inland.

  “The basileus will live up there.” He politely corrects her. “That other building is this city’s main site of worship and the local administrative center for the central orthodoxy.”

  “Ah! You mentioned this organization previously; they have grander homes than I expected.” Owl returns her attention to the yellow-roofed temple with renewed interest. “Since the subject has been broached, how exactly does the clergy function in your world? I noticed that you never mentioned them when recounting contests between local lords. Is that because your priests eschew involvement in violence and worldly affairs? I would have expected them to at least act as mediators… Someone here must.”

  Lamp stifles a smile at her final comment and shakes his head as he answers.

  “The New Covenant wields formidable influence across most of my world’s major cities- they even govern a few districts directly back home- but they don’t command enough graft power to hold much territory beyond that. For the most part, they just advise the basileis on which laws to implement and otherwise keep their fingers out of civic affairs.

  “You’re correct that they sometimes mediate armed conflicts, but their involvement seldom extends beyond offering neutral ground for the warring factions to discuss terms. They’ll also grant sanctuary to former combatants who swear oaths of pacifism. A decent chunk of their clergy enlisted purely for the sake of obtaining shelter from vengeful enemies…”

  He pauses to consider, then adds. “Now that I say that, I think the lord Clearheart usurped had a son who turned to the cult for protection during the last few days of the Glassblood invasion. They would have removed him as swiftly as possible and shipped him far away to prevent complications. He was probably off the island even before his father died.”

  Owl grimaces slightly in response before smoothing her expression and offering a reply. “I am relieved to hear that someone is helping. Putting that aside, this temple belongs to a ‘central’ orthodox, correct? I presume you have other denominations?”

  “Several. Hundreds, maybe, if you get particular about small differences. Most of those alternative cults are parochial, however. The New Covenant has reigned as the dominant branch of our faith since unifying with its only significant competitor around a century back.”

  “Interesting. And are they the preeminent religious body in your home city?”

  “By a mile, yes.”

  She nods and seems to carefully weigh her next words before speaking them. “Do you… attend frequent sermons?”

  A surprised laugh escapes Lamp’s chest with the force of a bark. The harsh sound prompts a concerned look from Owl, but he composes himself and reassures her with a friendly smile.

  “No.” He gently rebuffs. “No I don’t.”

  “I see.”

  The outlander starts to form another question, then hesitates before giving it voice. She tries again after a further few moments of consideration but cuts herself off at the first syllable when her eyes dart to something over Lamp’s shoulder.

  The scholar glances behind and sees his employer striding across the deck towards them. He turns to face the man and offers a greeting, which Blackwing smoothly returns.

  “We’ll cast off before dawn tomorrow.” The merchant informs them as he draws abreast. “Winds permitting, we’ll reach our destination by mid morning. If our contact has no urgent prior engagements, I expect to arrange an afternoon appointment. My company maintains facilities in the city where we can rest should a longer wait be required. Do you have questions?”

  “No.” Lamp replies after confirming with Owl. “Also, I notice that you’re speaking in vague terms. I should mention that your guest and I have been conversing here for a few minutes. I assumed the noise of the docks would hide our voices from sound grafts, and I doubted many eavesdroppers would understand a word we said to each other.”

  Blackwing nods. “Her preferred language is itself compromising information, but I agree it’s doubtful that anyone could discern or understand individual words. For the sake of caution, however, please descend below deck if you need to discuss any revealing subjects before we leave.”

  “Yes sr.”

  “Thank you.”

  The merchant extends an invitation to dine together an hour hence, then excuses himself to attend other matters. Lamp and Owl remain at the side of the ship in the meantime, returning to their examination of the city’s industries and leaving behind all discussion of the cult. Time whiles away without incident, and when evening arrives they join their host for another enjoyable meal.

  After dinner and a shared prayer, Owl returns to her private nook below deck while Lamp attempts to sleep topside amidst the crew. Long accustomed to noisy quarters, he manages to drift off despite the constant shuffling and snores. All the same, he’s almost grateful to be woken the following morning as the ship resumes its activity.

  Their boat has already left its dock behind by the time Lamp rises and regains his bearing, and he finds himself at sea once more, with the sun not yet risen. In the apparent absence of favorable wind, the oarsmen keep their posts, driving the boat forward with muscle and momentum grafts. The day’s schedule now depends upon their stamina.

  Lamp watches the rowers for a while, entranced by the cadence of their work. Each time the ship’s bow plunges into the trough of a wave, the crew feed their grafts from the downward motion alone, softening the impact without reducing speed. That stolen energy then translates via magic into lateral motion, pushing their vessel forward faster than strength alone could propel it.

  Lamp finds it astounding how the oarsmen manage to synchronize their timing with no guidance beyond a drum beat and the natural rhythms of the sea. Their endurance equally impresses him; the sailors continue rowing without signs of fatigue even after the gawking scholar grows tired by simply watching.

  Turning away, Lamp descends below deck to pass the time in dryer and slightly warmer conditions. After reaching the base of the stairs, he remembers to check behind them for the crate of jerky and happily liberates a strip for his breakfast. Disappointment follows at the first bite, but he persistently gnaws away at the tough, flavorless thing until his stomach feels closer to full. When the meal concludes, he leans his back against a barrel, shuts his eyes, and drifts off again.

  By the time Lamp wakes and climbs back upstairs, the sun has risen, and Blackwing has emerged on deck. The merchant thankfully has time to spare for idle conversation, so Lamp makes use of their moment to mention the issue presented by Lady Jaleh’s morbid taste in art and the negative effect it has on her public’s perception of life inside the caldera. In response, Blackwing graciously offers to let Lamp curate his next batch of offerings, and the scholar enthusiastically begins planning as their conversation concludes.

  He spends the next hour in the shade of the mast, thinking over the themes he wants to convey and the styles he wants to advertise. He glances at the stairwell whenever he catches movement from that direction, but it’s never the handmaiden climbing up from the hold. Owl still hasn’t emerged by the time Lamp’s island finally slips over the horizon, and from that point onwards the scholar barely notices her absence.

  Enraptured by a glorious combination of discovery and nostalgia, he drinks in the sight of familiar geography while relishing in an external vantage only afforded to visitors.

  Seeing his island from afar for the first time, Lamp is awestruck by its size. He had examined maps of the landmass before, of course, but only as they approach its distant hills then turn to sail along its winding coast does he truly appreciate how ponderously large the whole thing is. He already knew intellectually that he’d need days to cross its jungle by foot, but now he feels it.

  The isle isn’t endless, though, and they eventually sail around the final outcropping which stands between Lamp and home. He leans eagerly against the rails and almost careens over the boat’s side as they turn past the sheer cliffs of a minor peninsula that shelters the southern wall of his city’s cove.

  And there it is.

  The grand, eternal city, unbroken by the ending of the world. Lamp only notices that he’s grinning when his cheeks begin to ache from the strain. The discomfort’s not enough to make him stop; he only schools his expression when he notices Blackwing approaching from the side.

  Not wanting to tear Lamp away from his revelry, merchant volunteers to fetch Owl from below. He asks how to say “We’ve arrived” in the old tongue. Lamp gladly provides the answer, and his employer repeats the phrase twice for confirmation before he descends.

  Lamp happily returns his eyes to the frontward view, absorbing the sight of home with such attention that an observer might assume he’d never seen it before today.

  The great city occupies the whole interior of its bay, curving in an arc along the crescent shaped coastline. Lamp doesn’t know its precise current population, but it’s easily more than two dozen times larger than Trembleheel’s Landing and still growing. Although the occasional migrant voyage still departs to settle new islands or to claim a tract of land on the caldera’s edge, many of their descendants will return. The old city- the first city- always attracts more bodies than it sheds.

  The grand metropolis has a poorly hidden secret, however. When viewed by daylight from the bay’s center, the polis reveals its true composition. Rather than a single unified body, it’s a haphazard amalgamation of small towns, large villages, and mid-sized cities that simply happen to press against each others’ borders. Its sectors therefore vary in depth, with some regions only stretching only a few blocks inland before giving way to farms or jungle while other districts press far back into the hills.

  But even with its numerous thin patches, there are no true gaps. Every inch of beachfront has either an owner or a communal use. Give it another century, and the rest will fill out. It might take even less.

  Lamp only tears his eyes away when he hears a pair of footsteps and two matching voices ascending from the hold. He turns around in time to catch the moment in which Owl receives her first impression of the city, and he grins with a thrill of triumph as the outlander stumbles to a halt and her jaw drops open in shock.

  Holding his wide smile, Lamp presents the birthplace with a showman’s flourish.

  “Welcome, traveler, to New Carcosa!”

  @aylameridian.bsky.social