That night, Hallon dreams of a boy running through a maze of trenches. A flare ignites in the sky to cast a red glow across the barbed wire and earthworks of No Man’s Land. At first, the boy looks like Hallon’s brother Arne, dressed as a French soldier, but his face flickers as he runs. It shuffles between the people that Hallon’s known throughout her life until it settles on Omar Thulabi.

Shadows spill from over the sides of the trenches to chase after him. They drive him onward until a gas shell explodes ahead, shattering the way. Mustard gas fills the air, and the shadows howl in glee. They dart ahead to revel in the poisonous cloud, to inhabit and shape it to their needs.

Omar panics. There’s no way to escape the gas, so he scrambles out of the trench to run out into No Man’s Land. But no machine guns shoot him down. No artillery shells blast him to pieces. Even the shadows and the gas disappear, leaving behind an eerie quiet that has him looking left and right, searching for the source of dread crawling through him.

A pit opens under his feet, and the trench walls rise around him, closing in until he’s surrounded by the smell of death and decay. He struggles and pounds at the walls, but it’s no use. Omar’s bones crack and his organs squish as the trenches swallow him whole.

###

Hallon stares up at the ceiling; the dream leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Was it prophecy? She’s not sure. Her heart and mind are too clouded to see wisdom. The memory of Omar Thulabi’s fear haunts her. It turns her hands into fists without her will.

The old Hallon could’ve saved Omar, could’ve fought his pursuers, could’ve used her power to find a solution, but not this Hallon. Not this useless lump of flesh lying helpless in her room. This Hallon might as well still be in a coma for all the good she’s doing. She hits the wall in frustration—a hammer fist that should’ve shattered the stone—but the result is a whimper instead.

The urge to run rises within Hallon. To move. To do something. Anything. To lay still like this is to die.

Her legs buckle when she tries to stand. Walking isn’t possible yet, so she drags herself to the elevator. She’s breathing hard by the time she’s inside, but the need drives her—to move, to save, to do.

Dr. Rugaam and Wahid are sharing a cup of tea. The General puts down the book he’s reading. There is surprise on their faces when the elevator door opens.

“I’m going out,” Hallon says to no one in particular.

“Your therapy starts in the morning,” Dr. Rugaam says.

“Can’t wait. I’m going.”

Dr. Rugaam blinks but is otherwise unruffled. “Would you like to use my chair then? You’ll dirty your clothes dragging yourself through the streets.”

Hallon nods, wiping the hair from her eyes. It had gotten long while she was unconscious. “Yes. Yes, that would be good.”

Wahid rises, but the General stops him. “As it happens, I have been having difficulties sleeping of late. Let me escort Hallon.” The old man is stronger than he looks and easily lifts her into the wheelchair.

It’s not what Hallon wants, but it’ll have to do. She grips the arms of the chair.

Outside, the street is quiet. There’s no sign of the party and no sign of Omar Thulabi’s passing, except for stray grains of rice. If only she hadn’t looked into his eyes. If only the Silent hadn’t been so calm, so sure that they’d catch him. So arrogant as they strode between the tables and past Hallon.

Six hundred years ago, that arrogance had walked onto a small farmstead; the raiders coming late in the day with unhurried steps to drive the family and apprentices out with their spears and axes. Hallon Nilsdotter had skipped out on her chores that afternoon. She’d left her place at the loom and gone out into the woods. Her hands were tired and she wanted to play. That’s all. She didn’t want salvation. Didn’t want the tragedy and nightmare that came as a result.

She came back to the meticulous slaughter of everyone and everything she loved. To helplessly see her father cleaved in two, his sword falling from his hands. Her mother stabbed with a spear as she clawed at her attackers. Her grandfather surrounded and cut down. Her brother, the apprentices—they were all killed, and nothing was left. Nothing, except for the dead and their blood steaming.

After all this time, the old wounds still have their way with her. Flushed and flustered, feeling disgusted with herself, Hallon tells the General to run. To go faster and faster until he’s sprinting down the street. She wants the feel of the wind in her hair, the rush of the earth under her, the beating of her heart.

Hallon spots a squat round building and points the General towards it. She’d heard about the sanctuaries and wants to see them with her own eyes. The General obliges her. Inside is a single room with a mural of a winged man on the wall. There are cushions and a rug, a low table with a bowl full of folded notes.

“Is this a temple?” Hallon asks.

“Not exactly,” the General says, catching his breath.. “The sanctuaries are dedicated to Saket. He was a man, but one with a great heart and vision.”

“But people pray here? They make offerings and request favors of him?”

The General shakes his head. “People leave food and messages for the Hidden living under the city. The sanctuaries are how their families communicate with them.”

Saket stares past Hallon, his eyes on the horizon. She wants to punch him in the face and gets as far as levering herself out of the chair before tumbling to the ground. Driven past frustration, Hallon reaches for her power. Demands it. Batters at the obstacle in between.

Pain surges up her spine into the back of her head, blinding her. The world spins and sends her stomach lurching. Gagging, she vomits onto the rug, her stomach heaving over and over, the acrid smell filling her nose. It takes everything she has to push away the hands trying to help her, but they refuse to go. They help her sit up. Help straighten her hair. Wipe her face. But it’s not the help she needs or wants.

Eratosthenes says that memory is a gift and a burden. Some days, it is a burden indeed.

###

Time passes, uncounted. Hallon runs her fingers through her hair and wipes away the dried vomit. You’d think she’d run out of tears one of these days—that she’d learn a little equanimity—but then her first teacher, the Ghost Burner, had called her an idiot child, and maybe he wasn’t wrong. Then and now.

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A figure sits beside Hallon—the General asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.” Hallon waves him off. “I’m just sick at heart.”

The General nods. “I have seen it before. In the soldiers I have commanded. In myself.”

“The funny thing is, so have I.” Hallon gathers her stray thoughts. “Thank you. For your help earlier.”

“A good man serves,” he says. “And besides, we all have burdens. How are we to live if we do not help each other carry them?”

“Some burdens are heavier than others,” Hallon says.

“All the more reason to share them,” the General counters.

How much longer does the General have to live? Another twenty years if he’s lucky? Hallon used to think that twenty years was a long time. Not anymore. Now it’s just long enough to get attached to someone before they break your heart and die. Oh, sometimes their spirits come back to visit or they appear in their new incarnations, but really…they have better things to do. The Wheel of Life doesn’t stop turning. Except for the immortal.

Is Hallon willing to share the secret of the Calamity with this man? To destroy his understanding of the world and turn his life upside down? To reward his care with confusion and chaos? The General’s eyes are thoughtful as he watches her.

Hallon scrubs at her face. “It’s not that simple.”

“Life, she rarely is. But that should not stop us from finding the simple truths hidden in complicated situations.”

Hallon laughs, catching the General by surprise. “Sorry, but you just reminded me of someone, of two someones.”

Master Zhang had once said, “Life is like a muddy pool. Be the lotus in the water, beautiful and serene.”

And then there was the Ghost Burner. “Do what you will, girl. Find the clear line in the chaos and ride it to the fire at its center.”

Hallon shakes her head, rueful. The universe doesn’t ever give up trying to teach what needs teaching. Or maybe it’s Eratosthenes influencing events; the dragon offering a reminder about what’s true and important. The thought comforts her. No matter what happens, she’s not alone. She’d forgotten that. Eratosthenes is still with her. Even if she can’t see or feel him.

So. There is the Calamity, and there is Hallon, powerless to do anything about it. But is she? Really? She’d found Noor, and there were likely more clues she can find, even as she is.

Hallon can influence the people around her, and through them, events. And it won’t be the first time that Eratosthenes has guided her without her knowing about it. She has faith in that meddlesome dragon.

Well, I’ve been an idiot, but at least I know it’s not an incurable condition as long as I do something about it. Decision made, Hallon says, “Here’s what I can share: Something bad is coming—I don’t know when or what—nothing definite except that—one, it will affect many, many people—death, destruction, despair—that kind of thing. And two, it will start in Dawrtaine.”

“This sounds…what is the word? Nebulous.”

“Tell me about it,” Hallon says, sighing.

The General asks, “How do you know this?”

“At first, from a dream, and then later, there were signs.”

“A dream, you say, and signs.” The General pauses. “You have had dreams like this before? The signs, they come true?”

“Yes and yes,” Hallon says.

“I am thinking that Noor has many contacts among the fortune tellers,” the General says. “We should consult her. Not that I do not believe you, but confirmation would be wise.”

“This Calamity has already been confirmed, and there’s more—touching the prophecy is dangerous. It’s killed those who’ve come too close.”

“This prophecy has killed?” The General’s eyebrows rise.

“I know it sounds mad, but trust me—we’ll want to be very gentle as we poke around the edges of this thing.”

The General gazes up at the mural, deep in thought. Or memory. It was difficult for the Hallon of that moment to tell.

“There is a war,” he says finally, “between the Silent and the government, which has flared on and off for the past thirty years—since dear Saket was assassinated. My friends tell me that we are approaching another ‘on’ phase. Exceptional soldiers are being pulled for special duty, and there are whispers of secret weapons in development. Meanwhile, the Silent raid military depots for munitions and crack down on those collaborating with the government. Both sides move against the other, hiding what they do, like a fight in the dark with knives.”

He turns to look Hallon in the eyes. “If you ask me what is the worst thing that can happen in Dawrtaine, I will tell you that it is open fighting between the Silent and the government. Riots, civil war, revolution—the government fears these things above all else. They have put in place fatal countermeasures to protect themselves from a Gloop uprising.”

“Like what?” Hallon asks. “As near as I can tell, the Gloop are needed for their labor. If the government cracks down too hard, they’ll cripple Dawrtaine’s economy and starve themselves.”

“Do not underestimate the paranoia of the Untainted, nor the lengths they will go to to keep the Gloop down. They will do anything to protect the status quo. Not all feel this way, but enough.” The General clears his throat. “There is a gas—a poison called Siloxin—that attacks the throat and lungs. There is also artillery in the Army camps that surround the city. Ostensibly, they are there to protect Dawrtaine from attack, but it is an open secret that the guns can turn inward as well as outward.”

Poison gas! It’s another clue, but Hallon can’t help the surprise in her voice. “They’d poison their own people?”

“But you see, the Untainted do not see the Gloop as people. They are…a necessary evil.”

“Thousands would die,” Hallon says.

“More,” the General says. “Not all the Gloop would die, and those that live would want revenge.”

Hallon sits quietly, testing the mettle of the General’s words and finding that they ring true. “Thank you,” she says. “This helps.”

The General nods. “When one is lost, it is easy to recognize others who are also lost. We lost ones have to stick together, yes? And we will find our way together.”

###

“How is she?” It is very late and Rahima Rugaam is alone in the Goat’s common room. The kitchen is dark, and there is no sign of Wahid. She must have been quite forceful sending him to bed.

What a lovely idea, bed.

“She is—well, she is.” Abdul Latif, also called the General, sits with a sigh. “You were right though. She is more than she seems.”

“How old do you think she is?” Rahima asks.

“Not sixteen, that is for certain.”

Rahima nods. “But how old?”

“She has the voice of command. You should have heard her ordering me about No Town, as if I were her own private army.” Abdul Latif hasn’t always trusted his instincts, but he’s learned better since. “Her eyes tell me that she is as old as I am. No, older. But how much is hard to say.”

“If the tests I ran on her nucleic markers were accurate, she’s at least several hundred years old.” Rahima looks down at a cold cup of tea between her hands. “She may have even lived during the old war’s aftermath.”

“But that—”

“She’s some kind of Blessed Null,” Rahima says. “I’m sure of it. Maybe the first ever Blessed. Just think of all the history she’s seen. No wonder she’s cautious.”

“The weight of her memories must be enormous. It is a wonder that she is sane.”

“As sane as any of us are,” Rahima says.

“True.” Abdul Latif pauses to organize his whirling thoughts. “There is more. She has dreams.”

“What sort of dreams?” Rahima asks.

“The kind that come true, apparently, and she has seen No Town’s doom.”

Rahima laughs, bitter. “We’ve all seen No Town’s doom. It doesn’t take a fortune teller.”

“True again.”

“You believe her?” Rahima asks.

“I do. Call it an old soldier’s instinct. And yourself? What will you do?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

“I understand.” Abdul Latif stands, his knees and hips aching. “And now, I must to bed. It has been a long day, and I have an early meeting.”

“Consulting your old Army friends?” Rahima asks.

“Yes. As you say, it does not take a fortune teller to know that something is coming.”