Vorpei wouldn’t let him see Kirine.

“Trust that he will be taken care of, godling.”

But who to trust?

They gave him a room, luxurious, but small, on the top floor of Vorpei’s stone manor. Laykis had scanned every inch of the room, and found it safe.

Soft, lush red carpet on hard stone. There was a tub in the corner, and a clerk had offered to fill it with warm water. Poire had declined the offer, and was regretting it now. The air was so humid here, it made everything stick to his body. Made him feel perpetually unclean.

There were two windows looking out over the courtyard, and over the rest of the town. He could see the tops of trees, and hundreds of tents at the edge of the city, on the otherside of the canal. Soldiers milling about in the distance.

Evening had come and gone, and now the rains were dancing heavily on the city, droplets splashing and jumping off the nearby roofs. He had tried to sleep, and found that sleep was nowhere close.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he paced circles around the room, his boot steps muffled by the carpet. A fireplace sat unlit in the corner. How could anyone think about putting on a fire in this heat? A small table under a window was laden with cured meats and ripe fruits, all untouched.

His stomach hurt from hunger, but he was too torn up to even think about putting food in his body.

“You should sleep, Divine One,” Laykis said. As if his implant wasn’t already screaming at him about his lack of rest.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “It was so clear, back on Cyre. The Emperor - I don’t know. It was so simple. Now, who am I supposed to believe? One of them must be lying.”

“What does your subconscious tell you?” Laykis asked. She was oiling up the joints of her limbs, paying special attention to the plate armor and her newest repairs. She was cutting up white strips of a strange fabric - rubber, she called it, though it looked nothing like the material he was used to. She rolled the strips into rings, and melted them by holding a metal tool over a candle, and then pressing it against the rubber around her joints, sealing out the moisture. It filled the room with a tangy smell.

“The Emperor was holding back,” Poire said. “That’s what I think. But I don’t think he was lying to me. Why would he send me to this planet, if it's so dangerous?”

“Then you disagree with Vorpei?”

“I don’t know. Ryke said those were her ships in the Cauldron. So, no. I don’t trust Vorpei. But if there’s a war, shouldn’t I try to stop it?”

“You can’t save everyone, Divine One.”

“I know,” Poire sat on the bed next to her. “I’m not used to this. Back in my conclave, I didn’t have to worry about trust. The caretakers - that was their job. They watched over us. They told us what to do. No matter what, they were always watching. And then Eolh. I should have listened to him. I should have never left Kaya.”

Laykis set down her tool, and put the rubber aside. She folded her hands in her lap, her eyes fixing on Poire’s face.

“It was foretold that you would come here, Divine One.”

“What?” All of Poire’s attention snapped to the an-droid. “What do you mean?”

She shifted, as if she was uncomfortable. “Oh. I’m not sure if I should tell you this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I scoured the newest pages of the Unfinished Book. The prophecy within speaks of you, Divine One. It speaks of your journeys, and all the worlds to come.”

Poire raised his voice, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Because I should not be alive. The Book showed me the death I was meant to have. If I had died, I wouldn’t be here with you. I wouldn’t be able to say this.”

“But you are here,” Poire said. “You lived.”

“Yes,” Laykis’s eyes dimmed. “This… makes things unclear to me.”

“Laykis,” Poire said, “If you know something, you must tell me. Tell me everything.”

She hesitated a moment longer. As if she was trying to calculate the outcome of this conversation. In the long moment while she thought, Poire’s stomach gave a loud, almost painful growl.

“Did you see the moons?” Laykis asked, “There were four of them above the gate. All in a row. Shining crescents, as if they were made of metal. And the Emperor, did you hear what he called it? ‘The heart of the old grid.’ I could not help but recall a passage from the Book. ‘He passes through the old ways, to find himself on a darkened world, beneath the four silvers. Vol and behold, the Savior finds the beating heart. Unextinguishable.’ Does that not sound familiar?”

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“What if it's wrong? You said so yourself. The Book said you were meant to die.”

“It also said I would find you, Divine One. And find you, I did. So I must believe you were meant to come here.”

“Then tell me what comes next. If your Book claims to see the future, then what should I do? Where should I go?”

“Divine One, if it were so simple,” she shook her head. “Not even the Historians can see the future. Their city is full of sound that only they can hear. Slips of voices, catches of memories and sights unseen. The Unfinished Book was never meant to be complete. Even it’s pages are out of order. All they can do is try to make sense of it. Same, to you.”

She almost sounded like his caretakers, back in the conclave. Not just Nuwa, but all of them.

Don’t waste time on what should or should not be. Focus on what is.

That’s what they told him, when he was so buried under his own frustrations - his own lack of progress, compared to the rest of his consort - that he couldn’t even think.

Nothing exists, except that which you can control.

“Okay,” Poire said, followed by a deep inhale. “I have to find the grid. It’s the only way to know the truth. And if I do find it… If it’s real…”

I’ll find out if anyone else is still alive.

A new purpose infused him with the need to move - right now. Only, his stomach was empty, and his limbs felt weak.

He went to the table, laden with long strips of meat and fruits from the vine. The meat had been dried and spiced in something almost pungent, but still it made his mouth water. Poire tasted one, and found it strangely sweet, beneath all that salt. He started shoving pieces of meat into his mouth. Then, he picked up one of the fruits - a plum-sized green thing, covered in softly curled spikes that almost looked like hair. He split it open with his fingers, spilling juice all over his fingers. The orange flesh was delicious.

Fruit juice dripped down his chin as he chewed through another strip of meat. Poire ate as he walked around the room, gathering his gear: his hood and cloak. His boots, which had finally dried despite the rain outside.

“Divine One?” Laykis asked, her head cocked. “Perhaps you should slow down.”

He swallowed hard, downing his last bite before saying, “I want to leave.”

“It’s the middle of the night. And, it’s raining.”

Poire looked outside. Water was pouring off the roof, and splattering the muddy ground below Poire’s window.

“If the grid is out there, I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m ready.”

***

It was the dark hours of the morning when Poire and Laykis left their room.

Vorpei had stationed several guards outside his door (“For your protection, godling”), and both of them tried to encourage him to stay.

“I’m leaving.”

“Now?” One of the guards paled. “Are you sure, Divine One?”

“Yes, unless Vorpei intends to imprison me, too.”

“Of course not,” the guard said. “But she has a special retinue prepared for you. I’m not sure if they’ll be awake-”

The other guard chimed in, “Who? The Slow Corps? Oh, they’ll be up alright.”

Poire let them lead him to the war camp. To this Slow Corps, whatever that was.

It was too early to be called morning, and the camp was still asleep.

What few lanterns were lit sputtered in the rain. Tent flaps moved slightly in the rain, and a few camp guards were on patrol, carefully dodging the larger puddles of mud. They threaded through tents and ramshackle buildings and a set of latrines where someone was making awful, drunken, retching sounds.

The rain fell in a hundred waterfalls all throughout the camp, and the canvas tarps stretched across everything did little to keep Poire and Laykis from getting wet.

Slow Corps, as it turned out, was nothing more than a small squad of soldiers. They were at the edge of camp, the last tents in the line. No tarps hung here, and no guards patrolled around this small clutch of tents.

“They call themselves Slow Corps,” Poire’s escort said. “Don’t ask me why.”

From what he could see, Slow Corps was ready. Four cyrans, sitting out in the rain, their gear already proofed and packed in the warm darkness of morning. One of them was whisper-shouting at the others, as if he didn’t want to be heard.

“I don’t give a flying fuck who it is,” a longneck said. “It could be the Everlord himself, come down from his high throne. I’ve got two months. Two months.”

He had white tattoos running up the curve of his neck, and there was something about his gear that looked different. As if the jungle had grown over it. Frayed ropes and belts cinched his pack together, and his rifle looked well-used, and well-loved. Leaves and branches hung from his helmet and shoulders and his rifle had been painted black to match the branches of the trees.

“Nobody’s happy here, Scamius,” a whiskerfolk said back. Though his voice was small, his muscles stretched against the fabric of his uniform.

“Happy?” the longneck called Scamius said, “This isn’t about happy. Gods damned suicide. They want us to go into the Templelands. Not through them. Into.”

“I heard the same thing you did. Shit.”

“I’ll kill blackmouths all day. Hells, I’ll kill anyone. But going out there? Fuck that.”

“Why are you talking to me? Go tell the Chief you’re not going.”

Scamius went silent.

“What’s that?” the whiskerfolk said, antagonizing his compatriot. “Why’d you go all quiet, Scamius? Afraid of the Chief?”

“No.”

“Sure, you’re not. You know what he’ll say. He won’t say a gods-damned thing. All he’ll do is pull out that gun of his, and plant one right between your eyes.” The whiskerfolk mimed the action by tapping his forehead. “Now that’s suicide.”

“Fuck,” the other said. And nothing else, because he finally saw Poire and Laykis.

Their faces gave nothing away. Grim, and full of shadows in the weak lanternlight.

“The Chief?” Poire’s escort asked.

Scamius pointed to a cargo crate, half-sunk in the mud some distance from the tents.

A lone cyran was sitting on the crate. Sitting, with his eyes closed, as if the rain was a gentle massage on his face. Half of the Chief’s face was burned, the scales melted together and turned a blistered white. It made his mouth look like it was frozen in a snarling grin.

Rain water soaked through his shirt, with the sleeves cut off. No whiskers. No long neck. No glittering scales. His scales were dark, dull green that blended into black.

“You him?” the Chief said.

“I am,” Poire said. He had his hood up, to protect his face from the rain.

“You don’t look like a god.”

“What does a god look like?” Poire asked.

And now, it really did look like the Chief was smiling. A hard smile that cracked the burned flesh of his face. “Let’s find out.”

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