‘All right.’

‘Option two is, he’s one of the bastards we’re up against, and you’ll hear from his own mouth why Labyrinth is in danger.’

‘And then I mindwipe him.’

‘No.’ Gould looked at the others. ‘In that case, amnesia will be unnecessary.’

Sapherson wanted to say, so the ends justify the means for you as well as for me. But she was not that stupid.

‘If it’s option one,’ she said instead, ‘then I guess I’ll never know what this conspiracy is about, will I?’

‘Yeah, you will,’ said Karelin. ‘Because once we’re done with Turnbull, I’ll bring the next one in, and then the next. We’re going to find one of the bad guys for sure.’

She did not smile at bad guys.

‘How many people?’

‘Enough to be certain.’

So they were serious; but then, that was obvious.

‘And what happens after that?’ she said.

‘Then things will move very fast,’ said Gould.

That was when the fear-for-self left her, because there were greater things happening here than the life of one neuroscientist, things of moment; and for all her failings, when it came to the city-world that nurtured them all in this ur-continuum, there was one thing she knew, deep inside, deeper even than the needs that drove her in her work.

She would sooner die than allow Labyrinth to fall.

THIRTY-FIVE

EARTH, 778 AD

Ulfr woke up thinking of wisdom personified as a woman – Kenna? – but that was too abstract because he was holding her, his sweet Eira; and they fitted together in every way, as he had always known they would. Two halves of a single shape, now complete.

‘Hey, warrior.’

Her eyes were clear. He ignored the scent coming from her poultice, inhaled the breath she had exhaled, and kissed her. That one kiss contained more sensuality than every experience with every other young woman in his life.

‘Ulfr, my wolf.’

‘Yes.’

‘Love me.’

And so he did, and it was marvellous once more.

The sheep hobbled outside Eira’s hut was a present from Chief Folkvar, she said, supposed to cheer her up. Then she tucked her arm inside Ulfr’s, and her smile was a reflection of the sun, bright enough to blind.

‘Take me for a walk, warrior.’

‘I’ll take you anywhere.’

‘Hmm. Heimdall’s Point, then.’

‘Are you up to it?’

Her gait was slow and off-kilter, limping to favour the torso wound; and she was already breathless, just a little.

‘Perhaps a strong warrior will carry me if I get tired.’

‘Perhaps he will.’

Smiles were everywhere as the clan members saw them walking as a couple. In the aftermath of violence, good things might happen; and when they did, they should be celebrated. Even Vermundr grinned, without a sarcastic witticism, not even a whistle.

Eira. At last.

All of the Middle World seemed to brighten as they walked.

From the promontory, they could see the lake, sparkling now, the blueness of far mountains, and the village down below. Close to the edge, the potential of that cliff-like drop exhilarated like the life-giving air, pure and washing through them.

‘It’s a perfect place,’ said Ulfr.

Every patch of lichen glowed with inner life, every narrow blade of grass, the richness of existence pressing in on him, creating a sharp intensity of awareness.

‘And I thank you for it, my handsome wolf.’

There had been some carrying involved, and it had been a joy to use his strength in a way far removed from violence, bearing his most precious love to this impressive site. While he stared out across the view, she stepped in front of him, facing him, and touched his lips with her fingertip.

‘I’ve tried everything, my best potions and deepest trance. The Norns have made their will clear. My wound is worsening. The poison is spreading through me, promising a long, bad end. Which is why I’ve chosen this, after you’ve brought me happiness. And I thank you.’

‘No, my love, don’t say that. There are other volvas who can—’

‘You’re the best, my wolf.’

She took two steps back, and then a third—

No!

—and her smile remained but only in his mind as she dropped beyond the edge.

Was gone.

It was Hallsteinn who discovered the broken body, but he waited for Ulfr to make his sobbing, heart-pounding descent from Heimdall’s Point, because Eira deserved to be carried by the one she had loved. He laid her in the waiting-place at the edge of the village; and then he broke.

For a long time all was rage and howling, the world gone in blackness and madness, denying him prey, refusing him the satisfaction of bones to crunch and the spraying of blood, because the clan knew to stay away as he flailed and thrust in the depths of berserkrgangr.

Then finally he sat, far from everyone, only Brandr daring to be at his side, while in the village the pyre’s flames leapt high, burning the last of goodness from the Middle World, and in Ulfr’s heart, he cursed the Norns.

I hate.

He cursed everything.

THIRTY-SIX

THE WORLD, 5568 AD

Harij staggered down the familiar scree slope, back into the caverns of home, his silver skin blackened here and there, aware only of the void left by his sister, by sweet Ilara whose thoughts remained trapped in a distant dreamlode, brightened and sharpened but different, part of something that was more than her. His wonderful, damaged sister was gone.

Daywatchmen found him, and carried him to the emergency hospice where staff lathered healing cream upon his burns, and immersed him in calming flux to heal, or at least to rest. For some number of nights that he was long past counting, they kept him in this crepuscular state, taking him out of near-coma long enough to eat and exercise basic bodily functions. For the rest, they kept him under, to ravel thoughts and body together once more.

Finally, he was fit enough to face the tribunal.

Only Mistress Ahn made a plea on the basis of his character and the goodness of his intent. His parents were too distraught to approach, never mind address the tribunal.

When the three judges asked Harij, towards the end of his testimony, how he felt about his own actions, there was only one thing he could tell them.

**I am guilty. Deeply guilty.**

Tension attenuated in the room at that point. Afterwards, matters proceeded with unbroken momentum, rolling to a conclusion.

They tied him to a pinkstone pillar at the centre of the flux chamber: proctors and councillors wearing heavy, shielded robes, hurrying despite the protection, because it helped only a little. Soon they had scurried out, leaving him to face the wildness.

It tore at him, the raging flux.

**Ilara!**

Twisting torrents that pulled reality apart.

In the cool of the night, the youth looked down at his new robe, at the cleansed glistening of his silver skin. Beside him, on the wide exit ledge, lay two carry-sacks of his provisions.

A cavern lay behind and below, cradling a subterranean town, but it was nothing to him.

**Wait.**

It was a feminine cast. He turned and waited.

**I’m Ahn. Mistress Ahn. Do you remember me?**

He stared at the woman, liking her.

**No, I do not.**

She passed a polished hand across her face. Then she straightened her stance.

**I came to wish you well, good Seeker.**

**Then I thank you, Mistress Ahn.**

He looked out to the night sky, to the black-and-silver filigree disk of Magnus above the horizon, and the mesa stretching far away. Then he picked up his provisions, slung them over his shoulder, and walked out into the open.

The Seeker travelled until dawn, when he found shelter and rested up, his mind stilled but receptive to the faintest hints of Idea or Memory. At dusk, he set off once more, for that is what it means to Seek.